


Challenge Seven: The Five Senses

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 78,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entries for Challenge Seven: The Five Senses for the 2014 Summer Pornathon.</p><p>The voting post can be found <a href="http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com/107978.html">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Group A (warnings)

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings and warnings included in chapters 1-4.
> 
> Chapters 5-8 are repeats of chapters 1-4 without pairing and warning information.

**1**

**Pairing(s)** : Merlin/Arthur; one-sided Merlin/Gwaine, Morgana/Gwen, Arthur/Gwen, Lancelot/Gwen  
 **Warnings** : None

Merlin could cope, he thinks, if it weren’t for the sense memory. Smell is the worst. There are times when he walks through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and the smell of woodsmoke and magic and the loamy scent of moss and mud have him doubled over and reliving the long nights when he and Arthur searched for sleep in the middle of a quest. How Arthur would press in tight behind him, the fire at their backs, and rub his cock into the cleft of his arse until he came. How he’d whisper filthy things in Merlin’s ear until Merlin went off as well and they both were able to claim a little rest before carrying on the next morning, not a single knight the wiser.

\--

It was the sounds that were the worst torture for Gwaine. The noises Merlin almost managed to stifle as he and Arthur chased release drove him mad. Mad with lust, with jealousy, with loneliness. More than once, he’d stumbled away from camp, telling Percival he was going to answer nature’s call. He wasn’t lying, strictly speaking. He’d imagine Merlin fucking himself open on Gwaine’s cock in the golden afternoon sun, would imagine the noises Merlin would make as Gwaine sucked him in the armory with dust motes catching the light. He could almost hear his name on Merlin’s lips as he imagined the two of them curled up in front of the roaring fire in his new knight’s chambers. 

At the end of his life, it had been the only secret Morgana hadn’t wrested from his mind and used against him. He wondered why, until he wasn’t able to wonder anything anymore.

\--

Morgana could never escape the sight of Guinevere on her throne. Even in her dreams, she saw it. Purple silk and golden crowns and dragon banners hanging from the rafters. She watched in dreams as Arthur taught Guinevere to rule, and how Guinevere taught Arthur to touch, and each morning Morgana would wake with heat between her legs and ice within her heart and whisper _that was supposed to be mine_. 

\--

Lancelot, too, had thought that Guinevere was supposed to be his. He had strode into the tear in the veil with the vague memory of her on his lips. How sweetly she had kissed him; how salty her tears had been. 

 

When Morgana brought him back, he didn’t think to notice how she tasted when they kissed. If she tasted any differently now that she was to be the Queen. He forgot everything until Merlin brought him back just long enough to summon the memory of her kiss again before he slept.

\--

Arthur had seen death; had dealt it out in justice and in haste. He knew what death sounded like, looked like, smelled like, and tasted like – shocked gasps and winded grunts, the sickening crunch of bone or slice of steel, tangy blood and bitterest ash. 

Nothing had prepared him for how it felt, though. How touch was the very last thing to leave him. How he couldn’t see Merlin, or hear him any longer, but he could feel his gentle hands on his face and burning tears dripping into his eyes. He couldn’t manage touch him in return, though – his limbs no longer obeyed and his mouth would make no more sounds.

Instead, Arthur focused on Merlin’s skin pressed to his, let himself remember how it felt to press Merlin down onto his bed whilst Merlin changed the linens. How Merlin’s cock felt as it pulsed over Arthur’s tongue all those nights they never spoke of. How after each near-defeat Merlin would run his hands over Arthur’s skin just to prove Arthur was still there, still full of life and hope and a future. Merlin’s hands were running over him now, so maybe Arthur was wrong. Maybe everything would be fine. Maybe as long as he could feel Merlin’s flesh warm and safe against his, they’d be alright.

That was the last thing he ever felt.

\--

For as long as Merlin had been alive, and that was a considerable length of time, conventional wisdom had held that there were five senses. Sight, sound, smell, hearing, touch.

Merlin had a sixth sense, though, when it came to Arthur Pendragon. He hadn’t felt it in a millennium, but he knew what it was the moment he felt it charge through his stooped frame. He looked out his window past the shore, toward the tower.

Arthur was coming.

* * *

**2**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/knights  
 **Warnings:** Magic/ritual-sex, gangbang, bottom!Arthur, facial, spitroast … but like, a _loving and mutually_ respectul spitroasting gangbang with facial. Or something. IDEK. 

There's a hand on Arthur and he doesn't know whose, in the warm silent darkness, but he doesn't care. It curls around the crest of his hipbone, rough with sword-calluses, fingers edging into the hair between his legs, and Arthur spreads his thighs welcomingly. 

It occurs to him vaguely that had he not accepted the Druids' wine, that were this ritual not vital to negotiations, he might not be so accepting. But the lifting of his doubts and warinesses by the magicked wine has also lifted some of the veils from his eyes, and he cannot deny that he has wanted, _craved_ this kind of wantonness since he came into manhood. 

Someone mouths wetly at Arthur's neck. He gasps, never having thought he'd be so tender somewhere so commonplace, and more fingers find his open mouth to fuck between his lips in crude suggestion. Arthur suckles, imagining the tang of steel to be something else, more bodily, something he has never tasted but often hungered for. 

There are five hands on Arthur now, pulling at his knees to spread them, palming at his ribs to turn him, and he goes willingly, wantingly, and the fingers in his mouth hook until he opens, panting. Something bumps his bottom lip, slick and warm and sweat-bitter, leaving a wet track behind, and Arthur licks it off and feels the blood heat between his legs, realising. A gentle hand cups the back of his neck, a thumb pries his mouth wide again, and that taste fills him again as someone carefully, so carefully, feeds him their cock until it bumps the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat. Arthur is forced to breathe through his nose or choke. 

Hazily-lazily, he knows he would not be averse to that. His own cock hangs heavy and blood-full between his legs. It is untouched, not a single brush of skin, but he feels like he could go off with just a breath, a hint, a word -

\- but there are no words down here in the dark. No sound, no sight, just touch, taste, smell. Visceral and pure, the Druids want an offering of carnal power, warrior-seed and royal submission, brotherhood and loyalty and trust, all at once, and Arthur needs their power and support so he is paying their price, he and his most beloved knights. 

One of them is fucking his face now, hard and sure, familiar hands rough in Arthur's hair. And fingers are sliding over Arthur's skin, to the tense muscle of his arse, his virgin, untouched hole - he does not know how many of his knights are there, slick-touched and careful, making him clench-squirm as they ease one fingertip and then another against him, softly in, out, pulling just the tiniest amount and then oh, _oh_ they push, they crook, one knuckle deep and then another, another, until Arthur's joints are locked tight and he's trembling, drooling helplessly around the cock in his mouth that keeps him breathless, pushing back and back onto the fingers - three now, or four, a gut-deep ache punched into him that he never wants to cease. 

There is a place inside him they brush more and more that makes him whimper and his spine arch and sway. 

His mouthful pulses, and Arthur hums and tries to swallow it deeper, only to have it pulled from his swollen lips, his gasping face upturned, then stripes of bitter wetness splash him, he's marked across the cheek, the mouth, can feel heavy droplets on his eyelashes, and he's on fire between his legs, he's full and ready for release, so close, so _close_ but there's no relief for him yet. The fingers filling him so well are pulled free and he would protest but they're replaced with cock, thicker, longer, aimed true and sweet to drive pleasure into his bones like a battering ram, and Arthur can't hear it but he knows he's moaning like a wanton thing - at least until his mouth is filled again. 

When Arthur comes, cock untouched and yet no other part unmarked, his senses roar awake, all five of them, like a sunburst. And when he comes back to himself, sated, exhausted, it's to soft murmurs in his ears, and the sight of his loyal knights caring for him and for each other, and he thinks that if this was meant to be a price, it is not one he's sorry to pay.

* * *

**3**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** None

“I can smell you.”

Arthur heard him before he saw him. He had to take a deep, steadying breath, pausing in the doorway before he slowly turned back around.

“I could smell you the second you stepped in here.”

Merlin was standing beneath the tall archway a ways before him. Arthur had known full well he was risking his life coming here, but he hadn’t been able to make himself do otherwise. The pull had been too strong.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin demanded in a half snarl. When his lips curled back, Arthur caught the gleam of one of Merlin’s terrifying too-long incisors, along with the brief yet plenty wanton caress of his tongue against the point.

Arthur had to clear his throat, searching for a moment before he found his voice through the way his entire body had started thrumming in Merlin’s presence.

“I could ask you that. You did something to me the other night.” Arthur closed his eyes against a shudder of terror, disgust that only veiled the intoxicating lure that came with only the mention. 

Merlin’s blue gaze heating him from across the dance floor of the club, the sting of dagger-pointed teeth against his neck… 

“All you told me was your name, not even out loud what you are… Now I keep waking up remembering the-..the feel of your teeth… Somehow knowing this coven house is where I’d find you.” 

Arthur impulsively raised his fingertips to the tiny twin wounds along his neck, feeling the way they burned and ached, with Merlin so close. Arthur’s voice broke to a lower tone. “I could only fight it for so long.”

Merlin’s eyes were shining now, eagerly flicking along Arthur from head to toe. 

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” He stepped forward, striding slowly towards Arthur. “Sorry, but it’s not that simple to stop.”

“Who said I wanted it to stop?” Arthur whispered, betraying himself with the words and yet never meaning something so desperately in his life. Before his hands started trembling too much, he tugged open the top buttons of his shirt. “I expect you to do it again.”

Merlin’s eyes dilated, drawn instantly to the signature of his own fangs in Arthur’s neck, how the twin punctures had grown red and swollen, almost leaking as Arthur’s heady blood rushed to the surface in response to Merlin’s presence. The pained whimper on Arthur’s face gave Merlin a flash of guilty remorse, but then there was nothing but blinding want as the blood in Arthur’s veins called to him.

Moving faster than Arthur’s eyes could follow, Merlin was suddenly pressing him back against the wall beside the doorway, everything touching from head to toe. Arthur gasped, feeling as if his entire body ignited with the contact. The puncture wounds in his neck throbbed.

With another lick to his fangs – now dripping with arousal, Merlin bent his head to press his mouth against the delicate holes in Arthur’s neck, just above his collarbone. Arthur cried out, his vision momentarily whiting out and his entire body bucking forward against Merlin. Merlin steadied him with two quick, firm hands against his waist, then tugged him forward tighter against himself and onto the thigh Merlin pushed between his legs. Merlin was hard instantly, with the whimpering noises Arthur made as he rutted helplessly back and forth against Merlin’s thigh as Merlin lapped his tongue across the puncture wounds.

“I made your blood sing for me,” Merlin whispered in a rough voice. One hand was tugging Arthur’s pants open and reaching for his cock where a wet stain had begun to appear. 

“You took in part of me just as I took in part of you.” 

Another lick to the twin punctures, another delicious shudder from Arthur, and Merlin’s fangs dropped all the way. 

“Your blood is the sweetest, the richest I’ve ever tasted. Now it’s mine. You’re mine. No one else will make you feel like this.”

His fangs slid neatly into the holes along Arthur’s neck and when he bit down, drawing blood, Arthur screamed. His hands grabbed Merlin wherever they could, grinding against him mindlessly as Merlin’s hand pumped the wetness already spilling from his cock. 

Merlin’s fangs were white-hot daggers in his skin, and Arthur could feel his blood sparking in his veins, all rushing at once to the place where Merlin drank from him. The most intense orgasm of his life suddenly gripped him, shaking from head to toe.

Merlin moaned loudly against Arthur’s skin. He pumped the last bit of release from Arthur’s cock while he drank in the intoxicating, addicting taste of Arthur’s orgasm. 

He knew nothing else would ever satisfy him like this.

* * *

**4**

**Pairing(s):** Freya/Vivian  
 **Warning(s):** -

Freya's always been somewhat of a simple girl. Perhaps it's because, growing up, she'd never had the opportunity for much indulging. It had just been her and her father, living in a small house, barely scraping by from paycheck to paycheck, and then just her in a tiny apartment just off campus. With two minimum wage jobs and a full schedule of classes, there'd been neither the money or time for anything extravagant.

Vivian, on the other hand, is nothing but extravagant indulgences.

Freya's still not entirely sure how they got from there -- meeting in a coffee shop, Vivian smiling at her all coy and prettily and saying, "Just give me fifteen minutes in front of a mirror with some of my makeup and you'll have people _begging_ ," -- to here -- shyly giving her girlfriend a twirl to show off the lacy purple baby doll Vivian gave her. Vivian's eyes are dark and hungry and so affectionate, and Freya's never felt more beautiful. She traces the shape of the fabric with one finger. The room feels too hot, her skin too tight, and her matching thong is already almost soaked through, but goosebumps still rise on her skin when Vivian's hands go to her waist.

"You look like a princess," Vivian says, somehow managing to sound delighted and predatory all at once. "Well. Maybe not the Disney type of princess," she amends, two slender fingers going up to rub Freya's nipples through the lace. Freya smothers a moan, already feeling too worked up by just a bit of flimsy fabric.

"Bed?" she says, stuttering the words out as her girlfriend's other hand slowly slides down her back.

"Hmm." Freya can practically see the gears turning. "I'm tempted just to have you right here," Vivian says, her tone far too innocent considering how her fingers are playing with the small piece of fabric between Freya's legs. "But that might be for the best. I have plans for you."

Freya can't decide whether to be excited or wary about that. Not that it matters -- Vivian's pretty used to getting her way, and it's not as though Freya's ever complained. She lets Vivian push her until she falls back against the plush bedding of Vivian's four-poster bed.

Vivian crawls on top of her, grinning like the cat that got the canary. "God, I love playing dress-up with you. The way you look in all these pretty things." She shimmies down Freya's body, leaving the other girl gasping at the sensation of bare skin on skin-and-lace. "I love the faces you make when I eat you out." And with that, she wastes no time in bending down, spreading Freya's legs, and doing exactly that.

Her tongue slides up the small bit of lace against Freya's cunt, hot and rough and wickedly talented. Freya feels her nudge the sodden strip of fabric just out of the way and dive in, lapping and sucking and making the most obscene contented moans, like she's dining on one of her gourmet meals. One hand joins her tongue in its determined quest to take Freya apart, and the other she splays across Freya's stomach. It's surprisingly strong for how petite Vivian seems, and Freya does her best not to buck up into the other woman's mouth. She pants, digging her fists into the ridiculously expensive sheets, her entire body focused on Vivian's tongue and how every heaved breath rubs the lace against her sensitive nipples.

Vivian's had plenty of opportunity to get unfairly good at this, and it's not long before Freya comes, keening and panting and shaking all over. Vivian keeps going, using her tongue and fingers and fucking her through her orgasm. Freya has to push her away, too oversensitive, and Vivian looks up with a devilish smirk. Her mouth and chin are drenched and her lips are as pink as her favoured shade of lipstick she keeps in her vanity. 

"Happy birthday," she says, looking much too pleased with herself. "Told you I'd have fun spoiling you."

Freya, still lightheaded and tingling and grinning, just laughs and laughs and pulls her in for a long, messy kiss. "Was that your 'plan,' then?" 

Vivian's laugh is high and fond. "Oh, Freya," she says, and climbs atop Freya, grinding her hips in a small, lazy circle. "I'm just getting started."

* * *

**5**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Blatant disregard for concert format, shameless flowery language.

Merlin sways. He probably doesn't even know he's doing it. Waltz's have always been Merlin's favourite. His face is a picture of concentration, unaware of any of anything beyond his own fine boned fingers, nimble as they are on the fingerboard. His eyes are filled with an otherworldly ecstasy that sets Arthur's blood buzzing in dissonance with the soft lilting sway of the violin.  
Arthur could write an essay on Merlin's face, from the things he did understand like the passion and the tenderness, to the emotions he didn't know if it was possible to understand.  
As the piece ends Merlin sits perfectly still, eyes closed, bow hovering over the last note. The moment seems to almost last forever, and Arthur just wants to snatch his boyfriend off stage and snog him.

The Applause rolls out, and Merlin bows modestly, grins, bows again, and backs his way off stage, a larger group shuffling in to replace him. Arthur grabs his hand and leads Merlin off.  
“Arthur,” Merlin protests, “Arthur, I want to listen, we can't leave now, Morgana's in the...”  
Arthur pushes him into a small alcove, hidden from view by heavy curtains, and shuts him up with a long, deep kiss, his tongue demanding entry.

“You were brilliant out there, you're so amazing.” Arthur pants when Merlin pulls away for air.  
Behind them, the orchestral music starts; long low, sombre notes that sound like dread and excitement. This is the sort of piece that sends adrenaline thrumming through his veins, the sort that's almost certainly called something impressive like “symphony of the new world”, or something German. The drums come crashing in, and their lips are crashing back together again.

Merlin pulls Arthur as close as possible and they both gasp at the pressure, the slight friction the movement creates. The skipping flutes float above the rest, cheerful and light as air. Merlin slips his hand under Arthur's shirt, and brushes his nipples, teasing them into peaks. Arthur lets Merlin pull his shirt off, and retaliates by tugging both Merlin's shirt and his trousers off.  
Arthur's hand runs down the swell of Merlin's arse to the swell of the strings, and Merlin's breath quivers alongside the drawn out note. His finger presses into the crease, briefly, then retreats, and Merlin's normally clever fingers, so used to moving through muscle memory alone, have stilled on Arthur's chest at the touch.

They rut together but that quickly isn't enough. Merlin's trembling, vibrating. He brings Arthur's hand up to his mouth and sucks in to fingers, then guides that hand down to his hole.

One finger slips in, then two. Merlin hisses, then moans then pushes back against the pressure, as Arthur adds a third finger and pumps all three in and out, watching Merlin, listening to Merlin, playing Merlin.

“Arthur... Arthur, please, fuck me.” Merlin pants finally, giving a high-pitched whine when Arthur's fingers disappear.

Arthur sinks in slowly, settling deep and low, and pauses a quiet moment.

As the oboes and trumpets pick up a tentative throb, Arthur moves experimentally, making Merlin double over and clench around him at the unexpected buzz.

With blood and drums pounding in their ears, they find a harmonious rhythm, building to a crescendo that leaves them blind.

Soon, they both have to clean up what they can and dress as they hear people starting to filter out of the theatre.

He may not play an instrument himself, but let it not be said that Arthur Pendragon did not appreciate music.

* * *

**6**

**Pairing(s):** Gwen/Arthur/Lancelot  
 **Warnings:** Blindfolds and some bondage.

Gwen blinked, her eyelashes catching on the silk blindfold. She'd tied it herself though she wasn't sure just who had tied her hands, one to each bedpost. Arthur had promised her a surprise for her birthday, the first one she'd spend with Arthur, unmarried though they were. Late at night, with a warm breeze coming through the curtains around the bed, she’d shared some of her deepest desires with him and this evening, at least one of them would come to fruition, he'd promised.

Gwen jumped when fingertips brushed against her side, then shivered in anticipation when she recognised Arthur's touch. She breathed in, her mind reeling through all the possibilities. She tried to listen for a hint but all she could hear were the deafening sounds of her breathing and the thundering of her heart. She tried to twist towards him but he'd moved, he was on her other side now, fingers brushing over her arm. She turned the other way, the ropes chafing her wrists.

Arthur's fingers moved down her arm, the sensation tickling her underarm until she couldn't help but laugh. "Arthur, you're supposed to be taking this seriously."

"I am," Arthur promised, his voice coming from the wrong side of her.

"Arthur?" Gwen asked, realising now that there were three hands on her skin, a mathematical impossibility for one man alone.

"I'm here," he assured her, his hand coming to rest on her knee, gradually stroking up her thigh.

"So am I," another voice whispered in her ear. "If you want me to be."

She moved to face her guest, even though she couldn't see him. A name was on the tip of her tongue and secret words spoken in hushed tones as they ran for their lives lingered in the back of her mind. "Lancelot?"

"My lady," Lancelot said reverently.

"Guinevere," Arthur whispered from her other side.

She was torn between them, turning from one to the next as Lancelot's fingers followed the curve of her breast while Arthur's hand gripped the inside of her thigh. Two men at once, Gwen remembered mentioning, thinking longingly about the man who had made her difficult choice for her. If only she could freely love them both, even if for a moment.

"Shhh, my love," they both seemed to say at once and she relaxed back into the softness of the bed.

She lost track of who pressed kisses to her neck and who pulled back her hair, who ran their nails over her skin and who sucked bruises into her flesh. She desperately wanted them both and without being able to see them or reach out and touch them, she had to abandon herself into the haze of confusion and the bliss of ignorance.

"Please, one of you..." Gwen pleaded, the almost touches driving her mad. She worried for a moment, wondering if she should try to make a definition between the two of them but all she could do was arch up into them both.

She felt lips latch onto her nipple, teeth gently nipping at it, tongue running circles around it. Gwen rolled her hips and was met with two firm hands holding them down and a warm breath over her cunt. The warm breath became a hot press and she was caught between two mouths, each nuzzling at her with gentle kisses and the rough scratch of stubble.

She longed to be free, to thread her fingers in Arthur's golden hair or Lancelot's dark locks. It would be perfect to tug on, if only she could reach, if only she could see. She wanted to ask who was licking along her cunt and who was pinching her nipple between his teeth but the words were swallowed up by pleasure. All she had were the pictures in her head and the sounds on the air, the feel of skin against skin. She didn't call out any single name as she came, everything, even her lovers becoming a blur.

When they removed her blindfold, she drank them in with her eyes. Each one was naked and flushed, hard cocks begging for her touch. She kissed Arthur first, whispering her gratitude against his lips. When she kissed Lancelot, she tasted herself on his lips, betraying his part in their tryst.

"You will have me first," she decided, licking the last trace of herself from his lips. "And then perhaps you both will have me together."

She looked at Arthur, already planning what to do for his birthday.

* * *

**7**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin, mention of past Merlin/Others  
 **Warnings:** None

Six weeks back and Arthur feels he's coping admirably. He's got his wits and two good hands, Merlin to guide him, and the computer for everything that Merlin can't, or won’t, explain. He's confident that he can learn, adapt, find new ways to be useful to Albion's people. And yet…

Everywhere he goes, he feels disoriented, like something's missing.

Around Merlin he puts on a brave face, but at night he breaks out in cold sweats, tossing and turning beneath the duvet. He clutches at his pillows to anchor himself, but they're no comfort. Always cool, always fresh, reeking of…well, _nothing_. He invariably punches them or flings them away, aching with a loneliness he doesn't remember from before. 

This world, it smells all _wrong._

~ > ~

He takes to hunting down familiar odours, a whiff of manure here, a hint of woodsmoke there, shouting a gleeful, "Well then keep up, Merlin!" as his nose carries him around another corner.

In London there are forges and stables still, spice shops that yield grains of paradise, fusty bus shelters and public toilets that approximate what it was to be holed up, hunkered down with a dozen brave men.

He narrowly escapes arrest after one trip to the latter. Merlin, arriving just in time, makes the burly constable recall an urgent appointment elsewhere, then hustles Arthur away, explaining. 

"That's _not_ what I was after!"

"I know," Merlin says. There's a flush on his cheeks, a grim set to his jaw. Arthur doesn't know how to tell him that he's not offended by grown men taking pleasure in one another – quite the contrary, if his reaction to those videos he's found on the computer are anything to go by – but by the constable's coarse manner.

~ > ~

Arthur only watches the videos when Merlin's away. They titillate, but ultimately leave him frustrated, just like his pillows. Just like Merlin, who has obviously succumbed to this era's ruthless soaps and odd perfumes.

Arthur catches himself sometimes, eyes half-closed and leaning in. It's only after Merlin's been for one of his long, demon-dispelling runs that he smells anything like the friend who'd held him, eased him into the grey slumber of Avalon.

~ > ~

One night, desperate, Arthur snatches a rank pair of Merlin's socks and a shirt from the hamper and stuffs them in his pillowcases, just to have _something_. He sleeps better than he has since stumbling off that muddy tor, wakes to a warm tickle of sunshine on his face and his cock thickening between his thighs.

~ > ~

The next time Merlin's out on a job, Arthur stops by the hamper before heading to the study. It's not until he's settled in, video playing, that he realises there's something else tangled inside the shorts. It's one of those strappy pouches Merlin runs in – ripe with musky sweat, thick enough to coat the back of his throat.

He forgets all about the video, closing his eyes and mashing the thing over his nose and mouth, sucking the scent deep into his lungs. He takes his time, using slow, firm strokes until he's lightheaded, gasping, his orgasm bucking against the reins. It's better than any he remembers.

~ > ~

Arthur thinks back on their before, ponders all of Merlin's lifetimes since. He digs out the boxes of framed photos, the ones that'd disappeared the day after his return. Stunned, he waits for Merlin in the lounge, pacing, bellows for him the instant he hears the key in the lock.

"Arthur? What on earth's the – "

" _I'm_ meant to be with you," Arthur blurts. "I want to be. If you'll have me?"

Merlin's expression goes from slap-shocked to puzzled, wary. "Er, you know you're welcome to stay as long as – "

"No." Arthur makes Merlin look at the photos, prods each adoring face. " _With you_ with you, like he was, and her, and him, and them – _all_ of them." He waves an arm at the rest. "And now me. Full stop."

"Oh," Merlin says. 

Arthur experiences a moment of blind panic before being gifted with that perfect, unfettered smile.

~ > ~

Merlin's mouth often tastes disappointingly minty-fresh, but Arthur perseveres, wrestling him onto the nearest surface, kissing until the flavour's worn away. He lives for post-run sex, camping trips, protracted power cuts.

"You should wash less," he often grumbles into a pine-scented armpit or between soap-scoured thighs, urging Merlin to flip over, push his little bottom up. "You hardly smell like yourself, except just – _mmph._ "

Yes. Right there. Arthur laps at it, inhaling deeply, holding the scent of his world on his tongue.

* * *

**8**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** Underage/Age Difference

It should be simple enough, Mordred gone for the summer before he finally flies off, leaves Arthur alone in the house Arthur raised him in while he goes off to uni, to start his own life.

Of course that's before Arthur begins to drown in the knowing, determined blue eyes of the best friend Mordred also left behind to help Arthur out around the yard for extra pocket money.

He's seventeen and beautiful and Arthur's gut wrenches every time he comes back into the house, bare-chested and streaked with dirt, with a silly, happy, _fond_ smile he reserves just for Arthur.

*

"Have you even had sex since Mordred was born?" Merlin quirks an eyebrow at him from where he's buried his hands in the fresh, damp soil, his skin shining with trickles of sweat that Arthur can't seem to stop himself from watching avidly as they course down the wiry muscle of his lithe, pale frame.

 _Beautiful_. And _seventeen_ , goddammit.

Arthur splutters out an incoherent protest and Merlin stands up, smearing more dirt across his chest and smirking.

"Well, it's good to know that you must be clean then. Don't even have to worry about condoms. You never know what you might pick up these days," Merlin says while waving an admonishing (and patronising, the brat) finger in his face, like he is the responsible adult in this situation.

*

The sun streaks through the water in vibrant, shimmering shards of light and Arthur laughs at the buoyancy of it, the water sliding coolly along his skin, while he watches Merlin's body cut through the pool like an agile fish.

He's unsure how they ended up here, roughhousing in the water, and he's drunk on it all, the way Merlin flows around him, pushing, prodding, eyes huge and even bluer in the sunlit water, full of laughter and a seemingly bottomless well of happiness.

There's always been a joyfulness to him, some unfathomable quality that makes Arthur want to reach out and grasp and never let go.

Merlin dunks him again and Arthur gasps and shoves himself forward until he catches him around the middle, Merlin's skin slick and smooth under his hands with a dusting of hair on his belly that Arthur belatedly realises he's palming just above the line of his shorts, so close, dizzying him as his lungs ache with the need to breathe, but caught in the bubble of this tremulous moment he doesn't want to break.

Then time rushes again abruptly and he hauls himself to the edge of the pool, intent on getting out and putting as much space between them as possible. But Merlin has other ideas and catches him at the wall, pinning him to the sides with a strong grip on Arthur's wrists, using his body to box him in, flush along Arthur's back.

"No, you don't get to run away this time, I won't let you," he groans into Arthur's ear, hot and moist and skittering through Arthur's veins.

"Merlin..." Arthur protests, voice weak and cracking even to his own ears, and scrabbles at the side of the pool for any sort of leverage, but Merlin doesn't let up in the slightest, pushing closer, and Arthur can _feel_ the shape of his cock through his shorts grinding into Arthur's arse, the sharp tang of chlorine and earthy _boy_ going to his head until his vision darkens around the edges.

"No," Merlin says again sharply and squeezes Arthur's wrists until they'll leave bruises and Arthur goes lax, compliant in his grip.

With a ragged whine Merlin lets go and plasters himself to Arthur, hands suddenly everywhere, yanking his hair until Arthur's head is pulled back for a frantic, toe-curling kiss, his mouth soft with the taste of the pool and something sweet upon his tongue. And then he's yanking Arthur's trunks down, one hand grabbing Arthur's cock with long, sure fingers, the other slipping down Arthur's back in between his arse cheeks and pushing in with the water-chilled tip of his thumb, Merlin's own cock throbbing just to the side where he's humping the thick swell of Arthur's arse with needy, little growls in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, yeah, you fucking love that, don't you. You'd love it if I fucked you raw right here against the pool tiles..."

Arthur whimpers and gives into it, into everything, into the happiness promised by Merlin's lips; Merlin deserves everything Arthur has to give and more.

* * *

**9**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** Major Character Death, prolonged illness, referenced disability. 

Magic fades.

It's slow at first and no one notices. Merlin's so used to using modern technology that he doesn't even notice the distillation of his power. 

It's not until he starts to fade that he pays attention. Everyone pays attention, then. And it's too late. 

His sight and his hearing start to go at the same time, but his hearing disintegrates faster. It's both boon and curse: he can still see Arthur, even if he can barely hear the worry-laden mockery in Arthur's voice. 

Merlin takes to laying against Arthur, head on his chest. It lets him feel Arthur's heartbeat and bask in his warmth, which makes the magic fading okay. Merlin's dying, but Arthur is still strong and beautiful. His hair seems even more golden, glowing like the sun when Merlin stares at him, and his eyes rival Merlin's memory of the sky.

Arthur traces the words he can't say on Merlin's skin with his lips. His hands glide over Merlin's slim chest, bringing with them all the love and devotion Arthur can't express. His fingers whisper praise as he opens Merlin up, and his cock, when it finally slides home, sings promises never to be forgotten. 

They both cry, although Arthur tries to hide it by burying his face in Merlin's hair, distracting Merlin by mouthing at his ears. It's effective, but Merlin knows the truth. Arthur knows Merlin knows.

-

His eyes go eventually, and Arthur has a hard time letting Merlin out of his sight to use the loo, let alone go outside. It causes fewer problems than Merlin expects, because his motor skills start deteriorating next.

"It's going to disappear," Merlin says. He can talk if he tries, but their best means of communication is touch, words written on the skin. "All of it." He's not sure if he's referring to himself or to magic, but at this point, there's not much of a difference.

"Not yet," Arthur says, in response. He holds Merlin a little tighter, as though Arthur can force the life back into Merlin - into magic.

That conversation triggers something in Arthur. He brings home holly and ivy and lights candles that Merlin can smell from where he relaxes on the sofa. Merlin suspects he'd see much more - crystals, flowers, figures, anything that claims to be magic. It's almost like he's a one-man army, bent on forcing magic back to life. It makes Merlin smile, remembering the times when Arthur had fought so hard against magic.

-

Arthur's incredibly gentle with Merlin, hesitant to even kiss him. Merlin's the insistent one, pressing Arthur down to the bed and straddling him. He knows his body, and Arthur's, well enough that he doesn't hesitate, sinking down so Arthur fills him up. It's the only time he feels alive. The magic between them is still there.

-

It doesn't take long after that, before magic completely leaves. Merlin can feel it, when the last traces of his magic slip away from him. It leaves a pleasant memory of warmth, light, and love, beautiful and aching at the same time like the memories of a first, old love.

Merlin cries. His tears are silent, but beside him, Arthur stirs, going from asleep to awake in a moment. He doesn't vocalize anything, doesn't try to ask a question, just gathers Merlin in his arms. Every sweep of his hands, every fervent kiss he presses to Merlin's face says, "I love you," in all the ways Merlin can't hear. 

He can feel every teardrop spilling from Arthur's eyes. They're rain, cleansing and refreshing, and he draws his last breath surrounded by the man he lived for.

-

Freya greets him on the other side. It takes Merlin a moment to focus, so unused to using his eyes. But they work, as does his hearing, and he finds he can walk across the verdant grass to Freya's side. Nimueh and Morgause and Morgana linger nearby, and the Disir, who bow as he walks past.

"Welcome home," Freya says, as she wraps slim arms around Merlin in a hug. It is warm and welcoming, as is the air, alive with magic and thick with happiness. But he still feels hollow, half his soul left behind. "Never fear, Merlin. Your king will soon join us."

* * *

**10**

**Title:** Magic-Man  
 **Pairing:** Merlin/Arthur Pendragon  
 **Warnings:** none

After the accident, his mother’d sat him at the piano, guiding small hands to the keys, smooth and cool beneath his touch. 

Merlin knew his scars were ugly; he’d heard classmates at Julliard whispering and he never left off his glasses. The scars felt hard, ridged like a mountain range; the only beauty he had to offer was his music, but as he aged, the less the companionship of his piano eased his loneliness.

*

Hammering woke Merlin, groggy and annoyed. Heading onto his patio, sun warm, he followed the din. 

“Bit early, mate.”

The hammering stopped. “Wake you?” 

Merlin frowned at the laugh.

“Hungover?” 

“What?”

“Sunglasses?” The gate squeaked, the stranger stepping to Merlin who retreated, Kil’s comforting body against his legs.

_‘Oh.’_

“Blind.” Merlin stated it like the inescapable fact it was, virtually hearing the guy crumple.

“Shit! Sorry! I’m Arthur Pendragon: neighbour and, uh, prat.”

“Merlin and that’s Kilgarrah, my eyes.” Merlin held out his hand, Arthur’s shake firm.

“As in Merlin Emrys? Magic-Man?” 

“Umm, yes?”

 _“’Druids Lament’_ ’s incredible,” Arthur enthused. “The passion and longing, like missing a piece.”

“Oh, thanks.”

**

Arthur’s renovating all summer, friends from his rugby team helping out, who adopt Merlin as their own, with much blushing from the pianist. Merlin brought them occasional sandwiches during practices which, after initial hesitation, Arthur gave feedback on. They were an odd pair- Arthur outgoing, Merlin happiest behind his piano but it worked.

In turn, Merlin took him to Camelot Hall, worlds away from rowdy stadiums.

“Wanna play?”

Merlin heard Arthur’s fingers skitter to a halt where Arthur’d been stroking the Model D’s curve.

“What if I damag-”

“You can’t hurt her.” Merlin coaxed until Arthur caved, Merlin feeling his excitement through his trembling frame.

Arthur’s playing was disjointed but clearly _‘Camlann_ ’, Merlin’s greatest hit. It’s beautiful beneath Arthur’s hands, heat pooling in Merlin’s gut as he pressed closer to Arthur, relief rushing hot as Arthur hummed.

“How’s it end?” Arthur asked.

Nobody’d ever noticed it was unfinished before.

“Don’t know yet,” Merlin startled when Arthur took his hand, thumb rubbing Merlin’s palm, hold tight.

Eyes screwed shut against rejection, Merlin cupped Arthur’s cheek, stubble rough, skin warm.

“Can I-” 

Arthur’s mouth’s tender on his.

*

Merlin smeared cream over Arthur’s face, getting pie-filling in his hair for his trouble, war erupting as they fell,  
wrestling on the tiles.

All mirth drained from Merlin when his glasses were knocked off, scrabbling for them frantically, face averted.

“You don’t need them,” Arthur said. “Not with me.”

“I know I’m ugly.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

Merlin shoved the glasses on so hard it hurt.

“ _Don’t lie.”_

“Listen to my voice - I’m not lying.” 

“Your cheekbones could cut glass, your smile’s incredible, when you don’t shave…fuck-”

Arthur’s lips were tart-sweet as Merlin rolled them, Arthur’s hand cupping the swell of Merlin’s cock.

“That what you like?” Arthur asked, tonguing Merlin’s ear.

“I - I dunno…” Merlin groaned, thrusting artlessly, face aflame.

“You’ve never?” To Merlin’s intense relief, Arthur didn’t withdraw.

“Wanna?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

Arthur couldn’t get Merlin’s pants down fast enough, mouth smudging _lust-truth-want_ on Merlin’s skin, working his tongue around Merlin’s cock, flicking the slit, hints of teeth as he sucked, riding Merlin’s bucking hips, as nimble hands ran restlessly over his back.

“I’m – Arthu-”

It's way too soon, Merlin mortified at coming so fast, but Arthur seemed pleased, swarming up his body, cock to softening cock, licking into his mouth with intent, sharing Merlin’s taste.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Arthur gasped, Merlin’s hands grasping sweat-slick skin to tug him closer, Arthur’s cock riding along Merlin’s hipbone, thrusting fast and furious.

Merlin’s dizzy on the scent of Arthur and the salt-tang of sex, hot skin against his, his own taste on his lips, Arthur gasping in his ear; he _needs_ to hear Arthur come.

“Merlin.”

Merlin grinned victoriously as Arthur spilt between them.

“Fuck-” 

Their kisses sloppy, Merlin carelessly tosses his glasses aside, intrinsically altered; no longer the scarred boy, or the man hiding behind a piano. With Arthur, like this, he’s just _Merlin_. 

*

“I’ve something for you,” Merlin whispered one morning.

“Gotta ge’up?”

“Lazy daisy.” Merlin dragged a protesting Arthur to the piano, positioning them on the bench.

The familiar strains of ‘Camlaan’ floated into the air, Arthur’s lost in visions of castles and friendship, war and love, heartbreak as the end neared-

But Merlin played on, the song transformed, joy filling every dancing note. For all the mystery surrounding Merlin, here, with music, it was as though every emotion, raw and beautiful, were writ miles high.

“I love you too, Merlin.”

* * *

**11**

ENTRY DELETED AT AUTHOR'S REQUEST

**12**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** voyeurism

Arthur yawned loudly. "I better get to bed."

"Awesome!" Merlin almost broke the sound barrier with his volume. 

He cringed at the equally loud eyebrow raise Arthur shot him.

Merlin cleared his throat. "I just...I know how knackered you've been lately. You need your rest."

Arthur stilled looked at him as if he smelled something foul. He backed away slowly. "I swear Merlin if you get any stranger, I'm going to have to reconsider letting you live here."

"Uh, I'm the one who found this flat." He pointed up his finger as he tried to speak facts to someone who acted as if the world revolved around him and anyone who didn't believe that was in complete denial. 

Merlin continued. "In fact you were the one-"

"Uh huh, nice story." Arthur interrupted as he unceremoniously closed his bedroom door on Merlin.

Merlin barely had time to roll his eyes as he ran around the kitchen throwing away Arthur's takeaway containers and plates, since the man refused to clean up after himself.

After getting done in record time, Merlin raced to his room and closed his door quietly. He knew he hadn't missed anything important but still wanted a chance to get comfortable.

Ever since breaking up with Gwen, Arthur had been going through the same routine every night. He would get home, grumble about the morons at work, and then he Merlin would banter about what to watch as they had takeaway. By the time that was over, Arthur claimed to be too tired and headed off to sleep.

Though sleep was certainly not what was on Arthur's mind right away. 

After slowly pulling off his gray suit jacket and toeing off his fancy shoes, Arthur would get in bed and slowly jerk himself off.

Merlin knew this because he had a routine of his own. It started off accidentally. About a week back, he had gone to Arthur's room to complain about the bowl of ice cream he'd accidentally sat in thanks to Arthur. He was full of righteous fury and was all set to knock when the loud sound of Arthur moaning caused him to freeze.

He'd never heard a sound so arousing in his life. He'd never heard Arthur so wanton and unguarded. It made all of Merlin's feelings for Arthur come rushing forward so powerfully he had to rush to his room before he came all over Arthur's door.

Ever since Merlin had kept track of Arthur's routine and when Arthur masturbated, Merlin followed suit. 

Merlin felt like a sketchy pervert. A feeling made even worse by Merlin's misuse of his magic. Since his room was so far away from Arthur's, he had to use his magic to amplify his hearing. And, God, did it work.

Merlin could hear the tiniest sound in great detail. Every moan, every sigh, every flick of Arthur's wrist played on stereo in Merlin's head. The sound was so detailed Merlin could swear he could hear the flapping of a mosquitoes wings.

When Merlin could hear Arthur lay down on his soft bed, Merlin shucked off his pants. As wrong his Merlin knew this was, when he heard the tell-tale drag of Arthur's zipper, his heart leapt into his throat, and he couldn't keep the smile off his face. 

As he thrust his hand down his pants, he knew he would probably be going to hell, but damned if he could care less when he heard Arthur's full-throated moan again.

Merlin was just using his own spit as lube, but he could hear the wet slickness of Arthur’s cherry flavored lube (Merlin knew this because Arthur insisted on writing the lube down on the grocery list every time it was Merlin’s turn to go shopping.)

Merlin could practically taste the cherry flavor on his lips as he groaned and clutched his weeping cock. Arthur suddenly sped up a lot faster. The _thwapthwapthwap_ sound was like music to Merlin’s ears. God, he was so close.

Arthur moaned again. “Merlin.”

Merlin suddenly stopped. His name roared in his ears again as Arthur said it once more. This was definitely new and before Merlin knew it he was coming all over his stomach. His lip was bleeding as he bit into it so hard to keep from screaming out his orgasm. Arthur’s orgasm followed shortly.

Merlin was in so deep and after what he just heard, he had no hope of finding his way out anytime soon.

* * *

**13**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** /

_sight_

Arthur’s skin was glistening, a pinkpale stretch over his solid frame, as he supported himself with a palm to the wall, the other hand in his hair to wash it. The suds of the shampoo clung to the back of his neck, but Merlin wasn’t watching that. He was watching the muscles in Arthur’s biceps and back flexing, and most of all, how his broad upper body melted into a slim waist, narrow hips. 

“Fuck me,” Merlin said, hoarse, wiping his palms on his trousers. They were clammy. “Christ.”

Arthur finished up, turned the shower off. He mirrored Merlin’s pose, leaning against the wall of the shower. He was blinking against the water but staring at Merlin, pinning him into place with his eyes. 

“Not our schedule tonight,” he said.

“Sure?” Merlin gestured to the outline of his erection in his trousers. “Wouldn’t exactly say no.”

Arthur’s laugh was husky. “I can see that.” He licked his lips, let his hand wander down his stomach. He scratched his nails through his pubic hair, drawing Merlin’s gaze to his half-hard cock. “I’d up for it too, but...”

“But?” Merlin wasn’t whingeing.

“You’re gonna watch tonight.” The grin on Athur’s face was slow, crooked. “And you’re gonna love it,” he finished, low, self-assured. Arrogant. God, so fucking _sexy_.

His hand was firm around his cock, his beautiful cock. It was in perfect ratio to his body, thick and long, curving up to his stomach. As if made for Arthur’s wide-spanning grip, it looked impressive even underneath Arthur’s large hand. Wet from the shower, Arthur could slide his fist up and down it smoothly.

Merlin swallowed down the saliva flooding his mouth. He shifted on his feet, tried hard to ignore his own prick straining in his trousers. Arthur got really into it, working himself over just a little faster, twisting his wrist on the upstroke and swiping the pad of his thumb over his slit so he could hiss his out pleasure.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin said, shakily, twisting his fingers in his trousers. He wanted to touch, to _taste_.

As if hearing his thoughts, Arthur’s eyes shot up to Merlin’s face, burning, dark, from underneath his wet fringe. His hand stilled. His breath was deep, laboured. “I want you there,” he murmured, and it seemed out of context until he slid his palm underneath his balls. They hung between his legs, tight and heavy. Arthur began to knead them, slowly, indulging. “Between my legs. On your knees.”

“Yes,” Merlin hissed, aching with the same fantasy. He wanted his knees to hurt from kneeling for Arthur.

“I’d hold your head, make you suck my balls,” Arthur said, squeezing his bollocks. His eyes didn’t leave Merlin’s face. “Make you take them.”

Merlin couldn’t help himself, pressed the heel of his hand against his trousers, needing relief. It tore a groan from his throat. 

“I’d keep you there,” Arthur muttered, chest heaving from keeping himself controlled. “All day. Til your knees hurt with it. I’d—”

“Oh, fuck, _yes_ ,” Merlin swore, all reason lost, heart racing with the idea of it. His trousers were down fast, his knees on the floor faster. The _thud_ of it made him shudder, his dick twitch.

“God, you _slut_ ,” Arthur said, darkly delighted, his cock spurting pre-come over his fingers. “You love it, don’t you?”

“Yes—” 

Arthur fisted his cock again while tugging at his balls. The sight made Merlin’s cock ache in sympathy, and he gripped it, breath stuttering.

“On your knees for me,” Arthur said, voice going thin with arousal. “You want it. Say you want it.”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, moving his hand too fast, inducing an overflow of pleasure. If he opened his eyes now, the sight of Arthur jerking off would be his death. “Yes, Arthur, want it, want you to put me there—”

“Such a slut, God, Merlin,” Arthur grit out. Merlin’s ears were hot with the slick sounds of their wanking. His breath shivered out of him. His eyes opened again to Arthur’s thighs parting more, feet sliding apart. Arthur had a palm against the wall to brace himself as he jerked his glorious cock with his other hand furiously, fast, hard, as if racing for the pleasure. His body was a tight cage of coiled muscles that broke apart when he growled, “ _Mer_ lin,” coming on his thighs and stomach.

Merlin choked back a, “Fuck,” as the heat gripped him too. The only anchor to reality were his knees on the hard floor, solid, grounding, there for Arthur.

* * *

**14**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Underage (17)

1\. Sight

When he was five, he told his mother that he could see ghosts.

Initially, she brushed it off as the results of a rampant imagination and a bit too much TV. Later, when the descriptions became more detailed and elaborate, she took him to see a child therapist.

He didn't like the therapist. The therapist's office smelled like eggs, and the the therapist himself smelled even more like eggs. But his mom kept taking him there, and the therapist kept asking questions, so eventually he talked.

And that was how Merlin learned to keep quiet about the shadows he saw.

***

2\. Hearing

When he was twelve, he started to hear them, too.

It was like living on the blurry line between two worlds. The vague silhouettes of his childhood became distinct people who walked and smiled and held hands; they were transparent and insubstantial, but still very much _there_. Sometimes they saw him, sometimes they didn't. When he first began to hear them, their voices were muffled and indistinct, like whispers from the other room. They grew sharper with time, sounds into words and words into sentences.

He even began to recognize some of the people who lived in his house. They usually never acknowledged him, but he liked to watch them anyway. They went about their daily lives much the same way any real person would, just using objects he couldn't see and wearing clothes from times long past.

There was also a boy who lived in his room. He was blonde and blue-eyed, and he had a voice that sounded like he enjoyed telling people what to do. He slept in Merlin's room every night, in the corner where Merlin assumed a bed stood once. Although the boy never saw him, Merlin had begun to think of him as a friend.

His name was Arthur.

***

3\. Smell

When Merlin was sixteen, he thought he might be a little bit in love with Arthur. They were about the same age, he suspected, but where puberty had given Merlin nothing but height and acne, Arthur had gotten musculature, a jaw line to die for, and a voice that filled the whole room.

He caught Arthur touching himself once. Merlin wanted to leave, but he couldn't help it--he froze and watched. Arthur's cheeks were flushed, his forehead damp, his breathing labored. When Arthur came, Merlin thought he saw Arthur catch his eye--looking _at_ him rather than through him. Then Arthur closed his eyes and Merlin wondered if he'd imagined it.

When Arthur finally left the room, Merlin realized that he could still smell Arthur in the air.

***

4\. Feel

When he was seventeen, Arthur began to notice him back.

It started with the small things: glances, at him and not at the wall behind him; jolts of surprise, when Merlin entered the bedroom without Arthur noticing. They skirted around each other like leaves in an eddy. It was a fragile dance, and Merlin knew it wouldn't last long.

However, he was still surprised when they bumped into each other in the hall one morning. 

That had never happened before. Whenever the transparent people got close enough, they just walked through him, but Arthur.... Arthur was _warm_ ; Arthur was _solid_. And Arthur's face was inches from his own, and they were still so close, close enough that he could feel Arthur's breath, smell him. 

"I'm Merlin," he said belatedly.

"I know," said Arthur. "I'm--"

"Arthur, I know."

And their lips were close now, close--

***

5\. Taste

Arthur's mouth was warm and wet and lovely. Kissing him was like kissing in a dream: not quite tangible, but still a feeling, the press and taste. But it did feel _real_ and then, suddenly, it was. He pulled back, and his bedroom was gone. There was a bed in the corner--Arthur's corner--and the air felt different, _tasted_ different.

"Where are we?" asked Merlin.

Arthur grinned. "Welcome to 1965."

* * *

**15**

**Pairing** : Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings** : None

Arthur’s winter furs are beautiful.

Merlin doesn’t know what it is about them - the swirl of colours from grey to brown to black, the softness against his fingers - but he notices them every time he’s in Arthur’s rooms.

He’d spread them out on Arthur’s bed a few days ago, running his fingers along them more than necessary to smooth them flat. They’re soft, clearly having been worked with some kind of oil, and he can imagine how warm they would be covering his body. 

He wonders what they’d feel like.

*

Arthur’s away on patrol with some of the knights. Merlin doesn’t think a prince should have to do that, but Arthur has some very strict ideas about his duties and obligations to his knights.

(Merlin loves it - much as it worries him when Arthur goes off without Merlin there to protect him, he loves every piece of evidence that Arthur isn’t the spoilt prince Merlin thought he was.)

He’s tossing in his narrow bed, unable to sleep. He’s not sure what brings it to his mind, whether it’s the dry pull of his blanket against his skin or the shiver that goes through him when a draught catches him. But five minutes later he’s sneaking through the corridors along a familiar path.

Arthur’s room is warmer than his, but Merlin lights a fire anyway with a wave of his hand and a whisper. In the firelight the furs look even more inviting. 

He runs his palm along them, one way and then the other, enjoying the contrast of smooth and prickling. Merlin knows he shouldn’t, but Arthur’s away another two days at least, so he strips off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and climbs onto the bed. 

The furs are as soft and ticklish against the sensitive skin of his back as he imagined, and he can’t help but make a pleased sound as he twists a little, chasing the sensation. He spreads his palm out and grasps a handful, sliding down the bed, along the grain of the fur, and it makes his stomach tingle.

He wonders if Arthur ever does this. Arthur’s skin, winter-pale as it is, would look beautiful against the dark fur.

He starts to harden at the thought, Arthur spread out here next to him, moaning softly at the sensations along his skin. Beautiful as he is in sunlight, Merlin likes Arthur best by firelight, likes the way it glints off his hair and makes shadows on his face, and he knows Arthur would be irresistible like this. 

It’s fruitless to pretend he’s not going to touch himself now, he’s already hard, but instead of pulling himself off in long, slow strokes, he rolls onto his stomach, bringing his knee up, and thrusts lazily against the furs.

The feeling on his cock is different to anything he’s felt before. He moves his hips a little harder, and breathes in sharply when the roughness of the fur catches the sensitive head of his cock. 

His mind goes to Arthur, wonders if he’s ever done _this_ , and gods, Merlin wants Arthur here, the fur at his back and Arthur’s cock inside him, Arthur’s hands tight on his thighs. 

He flips over and finishes himself quickly, wishing he could spill all over the furs but knowing he couldn’t clean it up well enough to avoid evidence. After, he only moves enough to grab his tunic from the floor and wipe his stomach before sleepiness overtakes him.

It’s too much effort to get into the bed. Instead he rolls over, wrapping the fur around himself, and falls asleep. 

*

Merlin wakes to a hand in his hair. It’s still dark outside and the fire’s low, but he’d know Arthur blindfolded in pitch darkness.

“I - ” he starts, but Arthur kisses him, deep and frantic, and Merlin wonders if he’s still dreaming.

“Gods, Merlin, what are you _doing_?” Arthur breathes. “I come back to find you in my bed, and you’re naked, and you look - ” He breaks off and shakes his head. “I couldn’t - ” and then it’s Merlin’s turn to stop him, drawing him back into a kiss.

“Come to bed,” he says simply, and Arthur obeys, slipping out of his clothes and burrowing in next to Merlin, pulling the furs up over them. He’s dirty and sweaty, obviously just arrived, his eyes are already drooping shut, and Merlin’s heart feels unbearably full. 

Arthur’s skin against his feels better than anything, Merlin thinks, before he sinks back into sleep.

* * *

**16**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** age difference, prostitution

The streets are still foreign to Arthur, the tap tap tap of his stick more hesitant than usual, and so it takes him a moment to realise that someone's walking next to him. He can hear the squeaking of trainers against the pavement, the chafing of jeans. He notices the odour: masculine, sweaty but not rancid, a lingering taste of pub and second-hand ashes. 

The person - young, male, possibly a bit of a punk - isn't rushing by but measuring his pace to match Arthur's.

Arthur frowns but walks on. Waits.

''I've seen you around. You living in the area?''

The voice confirms Arthur's previous assessment, but there's something else: a nervous lilt, a desperate hope. The boy's not as brave as he's trying to sound, and it makes Arthur curious. Makes him answer. 

''Yes. Since recently.''

''Oh. That's great.'' The boy takes a deep breath. ''Are you single?''

Arthur stops so suddenly he almost stumbles. ''I beg you pardon?''

''I was just wondering... whether you might be looking for some company?''

Realisation hits Arthur like a thunderbolt. ''Are you offering yours for sale?''

''Only twenty for a blow-job. For fifty you can fuck me.''

For a moment Arthur is speechless. Being blind, rich and a person of public interest – not to mention preferring the company of men – has always made dating a heinously awkward affair, but Arthur certainly never considered paying for a sexual partner.

''How old are you even?''

''Nineteen.''

Arthur raises a sceptical eyebrow. 

The boy huffs. ''You don't believe me?''

Arthur knows he should just turn around. Walk away. The idea of taking this kid home to have sex with him is outrageous, wrong and dangerous to boot. And yet the thought makes something in Arthur's stomach flutter and his cock harden.

\---

The boy's first reaction to Arthur's flat is a low whistle, then he asks if he can take a shower. Arthur strips down to his boxers and sits on his bed, waiting and wondering what the hell he's doing.

The water stops, and the boy comes back into the bedroom, bare feet against the hardwood floor, smelling of wet skin and Arthur's shampoo.

''What's your name?'' Arthur asks.

''Merlin.''

''Like the wizard?''

''No. Like the bird.''

There's something there, hidden in the boy's voice, and Arthur's fingers itch to find the truth in the lines of his face. He doesn't.

''Come here,'' he says instead and stands, taking in the heat and the smell of the boy's skin when he obeys. He reaches out and finds a smooth chest, with hard, pebbled nipples. One has a piercing and when Arthur tugs it gently, Merlin lets out a soft, startled gasp. 

He takes a step back, asks, ''So what will it be, my mouth or my arse?'' 

Arthur hesitates. ''Neither.''

\---

Arthur pulls off his boxers and lies down on the bed. He spreads his legs, leaving himself completely exposed.

''I want you to finger me,'' he explains hoarsely, slowly stroking his own cock. ''And then I want you to fuck me. Hard. Rough. No-holds-barred. Can you do that?'' 

Merlin swallows audibly. ''Yes.'' 

But he sounds breathless now and his hands tremble when they spread Arthur's thighs further, one questing finger stroking up Arthur's cleft to rub almost shyly at the skin around the tight pucker. 

It's obvious that Merlin hasn't really done this before, but that only makes it better. Arthur teaches him how to use those long, graceful fingers, makes him use his mouth, all warm and wet and sinful, while Arthur holds himself open.

_''Please''_ , Merlin whispers finally, and Arthur turns on all fours. 

Merlin's cock is big, and he drives into Arthur in one hard thrust, the burning stretch glorious and perfect. Holding his hips, Merlin fucks him with desperate abandon, no finesse, no hesitation, using and bruising Arthur until he comes with a choked out sob. 

The room is filled with the strong musk of sex now, and Arthur's still painfully hard, Merlin heavy against his back. The boy pulls out, and then Arthur's on his back, Merlin's hot mouth on his prick, sucking him until comes down Merlin's throat.

\---

''I want to touch you,'' Arthur says after they've caught their breath.

''Thought you've already done that?''

''No,'' Arthur explains. ''I mean your face.''

''Oh... Okay.''

Arthur turns towards Merlin, raises his hands and carefully runs his fingertips over soft lips, high cheekbones and a surprisingly elegant nose. Long lashes and broad eyebrows lead to... oh. The ears are a little unfortunate, but somehow that only makes him more endearing.

''What do you see?'' Merlin asks.

''You,'' Arthur says and kisses him.

* * *

**17**

**Pairing(s):** Morgana/Gwen, Gwen/Arthur, Background Gwaine/Morgana  
 **Warnings:** Infidelity

When Gwen arrived in the hotel room, she found it empty. This was not concerning because usually she was the first one to arrive. Morgana would show up ten, fifteen, or even twenty minutes late and sweep into the room as if she did not have a care in the world.

It was this attitude she craved and hated at the same time.

After twelve minutes and thirty seconds (she kept count), Morgana burst through the door. She was full of energy and excuses.

“You’re late,” Gwen told her.

Morgana said nothing and simply came up behind where Gwen was standing so she could embrace her. “So? We are both supposed to be having a “girls night out”. Let’s just forget it, okay?”

Gwen wanted to argue but she did not want to talk about their husbands. Those thoughts triggered instant guilt.

“Fine.”

Morgana turned Gwen around in order to brush a hand over her cheek. “Forgive me?”

“You know I do, Morgana.”

“Good.”

She pushed Gwen onto the bed and made quick work of both their clothes. Morgana’s touch was demanding and rough; the complete opposite of Arthur.

The second she started thinking about Arthur it was like Morgana knew right away. Her breasts were squeezed and a thumb roughly brushing over her nipple. Just that touch had Gwen moaning.

It was yet another reminder of how different this was with Arthur.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Morgana whispered in her ear.

Gwen could never lie to Morgana so she immediately told her the truth. “Arthur.” Her words came out in a gasp because as soon as Gwen answered Morgana gave her nipples a firm squeeze.

“I’d prefer if you think about me, love.”

She nodded. “Yes, Morgana.”

Morgana smirked and shifted around so her sex was hovering just inches from Gwen’s face. “Show me how much you think of me, Gwen and I’ll make sure to show you how much I think of you as well.”

The position brought a flush to Gwen’s face. She hesitated for a moment but got over her anxiety and tentatively licked Mograna’s sex. This was very different from Morgana who attacked Gwen with a curiosity that left her clit throbbing with need and sex dripping.

~*~

Gwen wanted to bask in the afterglow with Morgana after it was over but instead she rolled out of bed. There was an attempt to stop her but Gwen resisted her attempts to lure her back to bed.

“Arthur is expecting me back soon,” Gwen said while pulling back on her shirt. “Isn’t Gwaine expecting you back soon as well?”

“Yes, but we still have time for another round you know.”

She was pulled into a passionate kiss before she could answer. Despite the voice telling her Gwen had to go, she responded eagerly.

“Morgana!” she moaned. “I have to go.”

She sighed. “Then until we meet again, Gwen.”

~*~

The lights were out by the time Gwen arrived home. She tried to be as quiet as possible as she walked towards the bedroom but then the lights came on which told Gwen she had failed.

“Did I wake you?” Gwen asked Arthur who was standing there with an obviously sleepy expression on his face.

He chuckled. “Yes but I wanted to be able to properly say good night to you, Guinevere.”

Gwen embraced Arthur as he came towards her and kissed her gently. It was so unlike Morgana’s kisses that left her hungering for more.

“So did you enjoy the movie with Morgana?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

It was getting easier and easier to lie now.

* * *

**18**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** Minor character death

Sometimes, Merlin relishes the leash around his neck: it feels like home and belonging and _Arthur’s_ ; other times, it makes his skin itch and his throat feel too tight: he growls and bites at it while Arthur pretends not to notice. 

Once, Merlin almost spoke, almost broke the rules of their little game, but in the end, he settled for baring his teeth. 

Sometimes, he thinks he likes this _thing_ of theirs a bit too much. 

*

It didn’t start in any way you might have expected it to.

Arthur has never been good with feelings or intimacy – he measures out his touches until Merlin’s only left hungry for more – but when Uther died, he became a blank, armoured wall that refused to crumble. Merlin’s heart ached for him; his skin did, too. 

The only thing that brought a light to Arthur’s eyes was playing with Gwaine’s new puppy, and one night when Arthur was shutting Merlin down at every turn, Merlin was desperate enough not to care when he dropped to his knees, frustrated enough that barking wordlessly at Arthur felt like relief; he yanked at Arthur’s trouser leg with his teeth the way he’d wanted to shake Arthur for weeks.

Arthur shouted some variation of ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ twenty-seven times, but he refused to give until Arthur became exasperated enough to try petting Merlin’s hair. It was the most Arthur had touched Merlin in over a month. 

He didn’t stop when Merlin expected him to. They sat there in silence, losing track of time. In the end, Arthur joked about dogs not being allowed on the bed. Merlin felt like he could breathe for the first time since Uther’s accident.

*

It was easy to keep doing it, to provide Arthur with some comfort by kneeling by his side and whining until Arthur rolled his eyes and gave in. Arthur had stopped smiling at Merlin the person, but he found a smile for the dog, and Merlin eagerly rolled over to make ridiculous noises and watch Arthur huff and hesitantly pet his belly.

It was supposed to be all for Arthur, but afterwards, Merlin would feel warm all over, his skin tingling. He loved to be touched – should have ended up with Gwaine, probably, if only he’d loved Arthur a little less – so it wasn’t strange or anything. 

It wasn’t.

Nowhere near as strange as fighting Arthur for a bone was, in any case, and Merlin threw himself into that battle with abandon.

*

The first time Arthur fucked him like that, pulled Merlin’s trousers down his thighs and held him down by the back of his neck while Merlin could do nothing but make whining noises, gooseflesh broke out all over Merlin’s skin. He flushed when Arthur sank his teeth into his neck, like he was showing Merlin his place, but then Arthur murmured, ‘Good boy’ and stroked down his flank and Merlin came, hard, shaking for a long time after.

*

Merlin learned that if he pushed his head against Arthur’s thigh, Arthur would eventually give in and pet him. He’d pet his naked skin all over: his hair, his back, his belly, his thighs. If Merlin was really, really good, Arthur might pet his cock, too, but it almost didn’t matter: Merlin liked sitting there with his prick stiff between his legs, dozing against Arthur’s knee while Arthur stroked him. 

Some days, he rushes home, thinks of nothing but that.

Sometimes, Arthur lets Merlin lick his cock – not suck, because dogs can’t suck, Merlin – just broad swipes of his tongue over Arthur’s salty skin and then over his fingers as Arthur pulls himself off, and Merlin can do nothing but watch, smell the heat of it, and eagerly lap up his come. 

*

There are days when Merlin will growl and shove Arthur off, unwilling to bow his head, skin feeling too tight. Arthur will laugh, now it frustrates Merlin; at times, they’ll end up tussling on the floor. 

Other times, Arthur will cover him, weigh him down until he relaxes, before licking and biting him all over the way he never used to. 

Merlin treasures every bruise, every singular touch, for days after.

* 

There are still nights when Arthur tosses and turns. But now he’ll shove Merlin, mumble about dogs not being allowed on the bed; Merlin will close his eyes again before nosing at Arthur’s throat and curling close, and Arthur will pat him even as he pretends to mutter disapprovingly.

Merlin doesn’t mind: he did always sleep best with the traces of Arthur’s fingers on his skin.

* * *

**19**

**Pairing(s):** Gwen/Isolde  
 **Warnings:** Dubcon, non-sexual bondage

Isolde’s favorite part of bringing in a bounty is the catch. There’s nothing quite like the thunder of hooves beneath her, bearing down fast on a runaway mark. 

This one is sly, but Isolde ropes her before she can dart down a sheer embankment. She hits the dirt hard in a scatter of pebbles and dust.

xxx

“‘Hup you get,” Isolde says, pushing her charge into the saddle.

The girl has brown skin and a stormy look about her. Isolde supposes it’s earned. There’s not many would be happy to be caught by a bounty hunter. 

From her perspective, it’s a refreshing change to climb up behind such a pretty prize. Isolde is used to hauling trash — ugly, brutish debt-dodgers who are sodden with booze. She’s scrubbed enough vomit off of her tack to learn it’s easier to haul most catches on a long lead than toss them over her horse’s withers. 

But this girl fits neatly between her legs and the front of her saddle. Isolde lets her hands rest on the swell of her generous hips, kneading a bit with her fingers as they set off. She tries to get an elbow into Isolde’s side for the presumption, but she’s roped up good and proper and mostly just jerks her slim back into Isolde’s chest, puffing a whiff of sweat and cinnamony scent into her face. 

Isolde laughs, kicking them into a canter.

xxx

The advertisement calling for her capture only identified her as ‘the Smith girl.’ It neglected to mention she was a damn fool, running off into the desert in the middle of the night like she thought she had a chance of ending up anywhere but six feet under.

By the time Isolde tracks her down she’s almost succumbed to the frigid night, shivering in a ball on the hard ground. Isolde carries her back to camp, peels the ropes from her chafed, bloodied wrists and wraps tight around her back until the heat loosens her into an exhausted slump. 

“Who are you?” Isolde whispers into her ear, burying her nose into the fragrant crease of her neck. “You fetch a fine price for a whore or kept woman, but you’re too much trouble to justify that kind of coin, no matter how juicy _this_ is,” she hisses, gripping her between the legs. It makes her groan and arch, opening more of her pretty neck to Isolde’s mouth. 

The desert is a hard and unforgiving environment and Isolde has long since grown hard and unforgiving within it. She’s unaccustomed to softness, and part of her is tempted to keep the girl just for the novelty of it. Isolde fills her free hand with tit and squeezes at the giving triangle of sex under homespun cotton dress, greedily inhaling the girl’s bready-sweet scent, rocking her hips against her rump. In that moment, if she could trade the whole bounty for a bed and soft cloths for her ropes, she’d call it a fair price and pay it gladly. 

As it is, she eventually drifts off with her face buried in velvety curls and her hands tucked under warm, plush curves.

xxx

She wakes to her own hands knotted under her back and a solid pressure on her chest.

“Don’t get up now,” says a sweet voice. Isolde bucks, knocking the girl forward onto her hands. She sighs, sliding her hips down to pin Isolde properly, bringing them face to face. She has sparkling brown eyes. “I just wanted to thank you for untying me before I go. Here,” she adds, jamming Isolde’s knife in the dirt just above her shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to leave you stranded after you saved me.” 

“How very kind,” Isolde says. The girl smiles. She shifts like she means to get up and Isolde lifts her knee, thigh sliding firm against her cunt, making her pause. 

“You half remind me of someone,” the girl says, running a gentle finger over Isolde’s eyebrow. Her hips circle thoughtfully against her thigh, teasing, before she gets to her feet and shakes out her dress. 

“I won’t go down for Uther Pendragon,” she says as she climbs onto Isolde’s horse. “But if you had a cause to look for me again, I might have a cause to be found. Ask for Gwen Smith.” She grins, circling the embers of their camp. “I won’t be looking over my shoulder.” 

Isolde laughs, letting her head fall back as the thunder of hooves dims. 

After all, her favorite part of bringing in a bounty is the catch.

* * *


	2. Group B (warnings)

**20**

**Pairing:** Mordred/Percival  
 **Warnings:** None?

“Why would you even wanna call a sex line?” Mordred asks.

Percival rolls his head to the side to give him an unimpressed look. “To order pizza. Why the hell do you think?”

“No, I mean,” Mordred starts, then rolls over on his belly and pushes his arms beneath his pillow and rests his head on it again. “Do you really need it?”

“I guess,” Percival murmurs, then looks at the ceiling again. “I mean, it seems like I do. If I’m to get what I really want.”

“And what is it you really want?”

Percival snorts and looks at him. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Mordred’s eyebrows draw together. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Come _on_ , Percy,” Mordred drawls and shifts closer, then all but sprawls on top of Percival and grins. “Talk dirty to me.”

Percival takes a breath, ready to tell Mordred to stop being ridiculous, but there’s something in his friend’s words that, combined with his warm weight on Percival, stops him from talking.

Mordred tilts his head to the side. “Is that it? Dirty talk?”

“It’s not just that,” Percival says. “It’s what the… talking would be about.”

Mordred twines his fingers together and places his hands on Percival’s chest, then lays his chin on them, letting him know he’s ready to listen.

“I just… wanna be fucked,” Percival says. “Hard.”

When he says nothing more, Mordred mumbles, “That doesn’t mean you have to call a sex line.”

“Yeah, it does,” Percival grunts. “There aren’t a whole lot of people who want to fuck me in the first place, and the ones that do expect me to...” he trails off. “If I can’t have this with someone I have next to me, I might as well get off to it with a stranger, even if they’re just a voice in my ear.”

Mordred just looks at him for a minute. “You can have it with me,” he says in the end.

“What?”

Mordred shrugs. “I can be good for you. And I won’t cost you a fortune.”

“This can cost me our friendship, you dork,” Percival laughs, even as Mordred’s words make his cock take sudden interest in their conversation.

Mordred huffs. “Who says it has to? We can get off once or twice or whatever. If we don’t like it, we’ll stop and that’ll be that,” he says, then sits up and presses his palms to Percival’s chest. “What’s it gonna be?”

“I guess we can try,” Percival says and Mordred gives him his brightest grin. “Wait, now?” He says when Mordred shifts on top of him again.

“Thought you’d feel like it,” Mordred replies and grinds down on him, teasing his hardness through their clothing. Percival groans and slides his hands up Mordred’s thighs, digs his fingers in. “Yeah?”

“Fuck, yes, okay,” Percival says and pumps his hips up.

Mordred laughs again and grabs Percival’s hands, then leans down to pin them on both sides of Percival’s head. “When you say you wanna get fucked,” Mordred says, voice low, “do you mean you want _me_ to fuck you? ‘Cause I can also imagine riding you until you’re screaming. Begging for me to let you come already.”

“Fuck, Mordred,” Percival grunts. “Have you thought about this before?”

Mordred shrugs again. “Maybe.” He raises a hand to trace Percival’s lips with his fingers and hums when Percival opens up. “Fuck, Percy. Will you let me fuck your mouth?” Percival moans and closes his eyes as he sucks on the digits, bobs his head up and down in encouragement. “Of course you will,” Mordred rasps. “You’ll let me do whatever I want.”

Percival moans again. He’s still got his eyes closed and it’s not because doing this is as weird as he thought it’d be - it turns out to be the exact opposite. It feels comfortable. Hot. Right.

“We can get you a blindfold if you want to,” Mordred says softly. Percival finally looks at him and tilts his head back so Mordred pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“No, just,” Percival breathes, “let me suck you already.”

Mordred makes a small noise as he unzips his jeans. “How should we...”

“As you are,” Percival urges him. “Come closer.”

Mordred tucks his fingers beneath his jeans and pushes them down along with his underwear.

Percival sees him smirk as Mordred fists his cock and teases Percival’s lips with it and he thinks, _Yeah, we can do this once or twice. Or whatever._

* * *

**21**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** None.

Strong, calloused fingers dance along the soft, fine flesh of Merlin’s wrist. The touch, barely a whisper of skin against skin, is still enough to quicken his heart and make his blood burn a little warmer.

A finger finds and traces one bright, blue vein from Merlin’s wrist all the way up to the crook of his elbow, a heartbeat later and plush pink lips follow the same path. The fingers linger on his bicep, tracing the shape of the muscle that’s become defined through years of hefting armour and buckets of water, and polishing metal until it is gleaming.

*

He smells of sunshine and earth, things that Merlin never contemplated as having a scent before now.

He loves it best when Arthur is fresh from the training lists or training field, his undershirt drenched in sweat. The scent of his King fills the chamber and it sends a bolt of pure lust straight to his cock. In a breath, he’s at Arthur’s side, hands fumbling with braces and gambeson, itching to get at the cloth, at the man underneath it all.

When he moves in close, he inhales deeply; letting the scent fill his lungs and heat his blood.

*

Merlin is frantic. It takes all his self-control to no clear the battlefield, locating Arthur with a spell.

The battle had been bloody and hard fought, Camelot’s Knights gaining the upper hand when a fog rolled in, shielding them from enemy fire.

Merlin crouches next to the body of a soldier in Camelot colours, his blond hair darkened and sticky with blood. He reaches out to turn the man, his heart in his throat.

“Merlin!”

Merlin starts, but is able to breathe again as he lifts his head and sees Arthur looking incredulously at him for squatting in the dirt.

*

“ _Mer_ lin!”

It starts with a shout. A shout that makes Merlin’s stomach turn lazy flip-flops and sets his magic to buzzing. He hurries to the corner of Arthur’s chamber, picking up a piece of armour and to polish.

The door opens and closes with a crash, and there Arthur stands; glorious in his mood, gaze burning into Merlin’s bowed head.

“You were expected at the stables two candle marks ago!”

Merlin looks up from his work and lowers his eyelashes. It may start and end with a shout, but it’s the breathless whispers in between that Merlin lives to hear.

*

Salt, warmth and magic; is what Arthur tastes like to Merlin.

His tongue reaches out to chase a stray droplet of water as it runs down Arthur’s chest and Merlin holds back a groan as he lowers to his knees.

It’s a heady thing, the taste of Arthur. Almost as heady as his scent, but not quite; it doesn’t fill Merlin the way scent does.

As he moves lower, his lips wrap around Arthur’s cock and flavour explodes across his tongue. His eyes flutter closed and his fingers dig into Arthur’s thighs as he savours the taste of his King.

* * *

**22**

**Pairings:** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:**

Heartbreak, Merlin decides should never happen when one isn't watching. The jealousy he feels towards Elena takes him by surprise, especially when he really likes her. Watching Arthur try to woo her however, it's a hard pummel to the gut. 

It's only later, once Godwyn and Elena are safely gone and Arthur's out in the field practicing with his men, Merlin finds himself in Arthur's room, pacing.  
Arthur's white tunic is thrown carelessly on the bed, inside out and rumpled. He means to fold it as a means of something to do. But the fabric is soft against his hand and without a thought, he brings it his face inhaling. Arthur's scent floods Merlin's senses and the rush of warmth and happiness he feels makes him almost drop the tunic.

\---

Lying to himself because almost easy as lying to Arthur about his magic. 

\---

Arthur catches him.

It's early evening, the windows to Arthur chambers is open, the breeze flitting past the soft yellow curtains as Merlin gathers Arthur's laundry.

His hands stills over a tunic and much like he has done in the past few months, he gives into the desire of bringing it close to his nose and inhales letting out a sigh.

“What are you doing?”

Merlin drops the tunic, whirling to see Arthur leaning against the door frame.

“Nothing,” he manages to stutter out, hands clumsy as he tries to gather up the laundry.

“Merlin,” and somehow without Merlin noticing Arthur is next to him.

He drags his eyes up reluctantly, his face flushing, “I'm just gathering up your laundry.”

Arthur tugs away the clothing from Merlin's hands, voice amused, “By smelling my tunic.”

“I wasn't smelling it!”

Arthur is watching him closely, his much too fond, and Merlin can't help the way a tremor works up spine or the way heat curls around his belly as Arthur's eyes drop to his lips where he had licked nervously.

“Tell me no, but if you don't saying anything--” Arthur starts to say. But everything tilts and clicks for Merlin and he lurches forward, half tripping against Arthur. His hands grab hold of Arthur's shoulder as he presses forward. There's too much teeth at first and pulling back Arthur huffs out a quiet laugh, before tilting Merlin's chin. It's a slow press of lips but Merlin swipes his tongue, licking his way into Arthur's mouth. He can taste the wine Arthur had earlier and he chases the taste.

Arthur's hands are impatiently tugging at his tunic and Merlin pulls back drinking in the heat in Arthur's eyes and the swollen lips.

Tugging Arthur of his clothes is easy, and Merlin pulls the tunic and breeches off with a steady, practiced ease. 

When Arthur does the same with his clothing, his surprise is evident on his face because there's a sardonic twist of Arthur's lips, “You don't know everything about me Merlin.” There's a flash of something on his face before it's gone. 

Merlin hides that away for later as he pushes Arthur onto the bed, hands trailing across his collarbones and down his chest, not sure what he wants to do next. 

There's an amused smirk on Arthur's face as he pulls Merlin down before twisting them around so that Merlin is pressed against the bed, “Like what you see?”

Merlin pushes his hands between them, his fingers tracing past Arthur's navel and to his cock. It's hard and leaking against his hands and Arthur bites down a moan as Merlin makes a rough sketch with his fingers before wrapping his hands around it. He wants to taste it against his tongue, feel it heavy and hot, stretching his lips until he aches with it. Maybe later, when they've fallen off their high and this doesn't turn out to be another bittersweet dream. 

He jerks Arthur's cock a few times, eyes intent, watching the way Arthur's breath hitches, the way his arms tremble as he tries to hold himself up. 

A moment later, Arthur shoves Merlin's hands away, wrapping his own hand around both of their cocks and it's almost too much. The roughness of Arthur's hands in contrast to the way his cock feels against Merlin it punches the air out of him. Arthur's ring is a shock of cold from where it's presses against him and coupled with the scent of Arthur that's heavy against his chest and tongue, Merlin comes hard. His world narrowing to the way Arthur tilts back, neck arching as he follows Merlin over the end.

\---

“You can have the tunic if you want,” Arthur says later, when their limbs are entangled, the sweat cooling against their skin and the blankets pushed to the end of the bed.

He only laughs at Merlin's indiginant sqwack and half-hearted swat.

* * *

**23**

**Pairing(s):** Morgana/Gwen  
 **Warnings:** none

Gwen knows that ‘I don’t like the way you smell’ is kind of a stupid reason to break up with someone.

But the thing is, she hates the smell of fish, so she doesn't eat it. Steamed white rice smells funky, so she eats fried. The smell of rain is cleansing, so she watches it from her porch, and sometimes lets it fall on her head, even though her hair gets frizzy.

So when she finds herself avoiding hugs from her girlfriend and washing her sheets immediately after she leaves, Gwen knows that stupid reason or not, she’s going to have to end things. The relationship had felt more like ‘why not?’ than ‘I hope you like me back’ and butterflies, anyway.  
A week of being single later, and Gwen was still thinking about the break up. She huffed, and crossed her arms tightly. What if she never found someone? What if no one ever smelled right to her?! What if-

A tall girl with soft-looking dark hair stumbled in front of the bench Gwen was brooding on, cursing rather loudly and trying to tie the strap of her dress, which had ripped from the bodice.

Gwen stood and shuffled closer, fishing around in her purse for the safety pins she kept for times just like these.

“Here, hold on, I have some pins.” She told the woman, who glanced at her in surprise, which quickly morphed into gratitude. Gwen grabbed the strap, but couldn't pin it without tangling the woman’s hair, which was indeed very soft, in the pin.

“Could you hold your hair up for me…?” She asked, trailing off purposely in the hope of learning her name.

“Oh, sure!” She said in a tone that implied she should have thought of that herself, and gathered her long black tresses up. “And it’s Morgana, by the way.”

The movement of her hair sent a waft of lightly-perfumed air to Gwen, who sniffed and leaned a bit closer, inhaling deeply, but trying to be quiet about it. She didn't want to seem creepy after all.

Realizing she’d spaced a bit Gwen quickly pulled the strap into position, noticing Morgana’s pale skin was almost as soft as her hair, and replying, “My name’s Gwen. And…okay you’re all good,” as she secured the pin in place.

Morgana turned, smile already lighting up her face, and extended a hand, saying, “You’re a life saver Gwen…” She trailed off, studying Gwen’s blushing face for a moment before continuing, “Let me buy you a coffee to pay you back?”

And, Gwen thought, who was she to say no to a smile like that?

\----------------------

One year later Gwen lay panting, trying to recover from one of the best orgasms of her life, and turned to Morgana with a smile, leaning up on her hands and knees to crawl closer and straddle her lover.

She paused, their faces so close that Morgana’s eyes took up her whole frame of vision, so close Gwen could feel her Morgana’s breath on her lips, and her lover’s smell surrounded her.

Gwen smiled softly, bringing their lips together and tasting herself on Morgana’s tongue. “Love you, Gwen,” Morgana whispered into her mouth, and Gwen smiled, sliding down her body until she was lying between Morgana’s legs.

“I love you too,” she said, kissing down her lover’s soft inner thigh, and pulling back to run the tip of her nose down the same path, inhaling Morgana’s scent, and smelling her arousal, pressing one last kiss to the crease of her thigh.

Gwen found Morgana’s clit and circled it with her tongue, using one hand to tease her opening. She traced random patterns with her tongue, pressing in with two fingers, quickly finding the right spot with the help of months of experience.

She brought Morgana higher and higher, and when Morgana fell over that edge Gwen worked her through it, heady with the rush of her scent that always accompanied Morgana’s orgasm.

Later that night, when Morgana was sleeping tucked against her, Gwen buried her nose in Morgana’s hair and inhaled, smiling all the while. There isn’t a way to describe a really good scent, or how they make Gwen feel. How her mom smells like lavender and love, how her dad smells like really strong men’s cologne and she’s frightened of him. She realizes now that it’s okay to define things by the way they smell to her.

Gwen loves Morgana, and Morgana smells like honey-suckle. Like honey-suckle and home.

* * *

**24**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** None

"This is not a good idea," Arthur whispered. He watched the couple with the reservation ahead of them stumble along behind their blind (literally) waiter, through the curtain into the dark room. A restaurant that served you mystery food in a pitch black dining room did not, in general, seem like a good idea.

"No," Merlin agreed. "It's the _best_ idea." He grinned with excitement and then, unfairly, turned his smile towards the blind waiter making his way to them with the help of a sweeping white cane.

When the cane tapped against the maître d's podium, the man stopped and turned towards them with impressive accuracy. He grinned almost as widely as Merlin beneath his odd-looking dark glasses. "Gentlemen, welcome to Dans le Noir. I'm Gwaine and I'll be your guide and server for the evening."

"Lead on, Gwaine," Merlin said with delight. "Though I warn you, it's going to be the blind leading the clumsy, haha."

Which was why Arthur made sure his hand settled on Gwaine's shoulder first, leaving Merlin to hold onto Arthur in their awkward conga shuffle into the dark. The lack of light disoriented him as soon as the curtain fell shut behind them. All around, people were talking loudly, as though volume could make up for vision.

Arthur finally let out his long-stifled sigh, this time in relief as they settled into their seats, only slightly jostling their neighbors at the next table. Gwaine left to fetch the wine—or so Arthur assumed. He could have been standing right over his shoulder for all Arthur could tell.

He tamped down his frustration, determined to have a nice date. "So, how was your day?" he asked, trying to pitch his voice to be heard over the babble around them.

"Fine," the lady at the next table answered. "You've asked me that three times, Howard, honestly."

"Sorry," Merlin called back to her. "It's only because I care."

Arthur snorted back a laugh. Merlin's feet knocked playfully against his; he kicked back, which sufficed for conversation until the wine and food arrived.

Dinner, which had been his sole shining hope for this place, proved disappointing. "I can't even tell what kind of meat this is," he grumbled after a few progressively more disheartening bites.

To his surprise, Merlin started snickering. "Well, I didn't bring you here for the food."

"What," Arthur got out before suddenly the table wobbled and something hard bumped against his knee.

That something was Merlin's head, he realized when Merlin's hand landed on Arthur's other knee. As used to Merlin's oddities as Arthur usually was—

Merlin's other hand found Arthur's crotch and started to unzip him from his trousers. "Merlin!"

He bit off his words when Merlin's hand closed around him, lifting him out of his pants and massaging him. His cock was already responding, heavy in Merlin's hand with the first rush of blood. So many people, his brain jabbered at him, to which his cock responded with surprising pleasure.

A hand fell on his shoulder; at the same instant, his cock slipped into Merlin's wine-warmed mouth. Arthur inhaled sharply, brain and body confused between shock and arousal. "Another glass?" Gwaine asked.

"Please," he choked out.

"And you, sir?" Gwaine said in the direction of the empty space where Merlin should have been sitting.

Merlin sucked Arthur in deeper in response. Arthur's back stiffened in sympathy with his cock.

"Er—" He cleared his throat and did his best to throw his voice across the table. "Yes, please."

It came out high-pitched and a little strangled, and Merlin choked a little around his cock. Arthur waited until Gwaine's cane tapped away before letting out a tiny groan.

He was just starting to lose himself to the hot, steady suction when he felt another light tap on his shoulder. "Say," said the woman from the next table. "Did you order the meat course?"

Arthur managed an affirmative sounding grunt.

"Could you tell what sort of meat it was? Howard said it might be horse, because it's French."

"Don't think so," Arthur gasped. His pleasure was peaking, despite the distractions. If only Merlin could rub his tightening balls, but they were still trapped in his pants.

"What about your friend? Did he have the meat?"

Merlin had ordered the vegetarian, abandoned somewhere beyond Arthur's clenching fists. "Oh yes," Arthur managed. "In fact, he has a mouthful of it right now."

The feeling of Merlin choking again around his cock did the trick, and Arthur emptied a grateful load into Merlin's throat. Still dizzy with his climax, the next tap on his shoulder left him unfazed—until Gwaine laughed in his ear.

"Well done," he said. "These infrared glasses just paid for themselves, mate."

The table rattled from Merlin's head hitting the underside.

* * *

**25**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** Underage, but barely (Arthur has just come of age, Merlin is slightly younger)

Arthur was born in May. He was presented to the court amid clouds of pinkish-white cherry blossoms.

During the revels the sorceress Nimueh unexpectedly appeared by the little prince's cradle.

“I come to claim recompense for Camelot's unjust persecution of magic,” she declared. “With so many lives lost, what's one more?”

The court watched in horror as she prepared to call down lightning, but her hand stilled. Even Nimueh's icy heart melted at the sight of the sleeping boy's innocent face.

“Some small vengeance shall yet be mine: The prince will never know the sense of smell,” Nimueh said, breathing the sweet-scented air. Flower fragrance enveloped them all.

“If I were as cruel as you, King Uther, your son would be dead.”

With that she disappeared in a flash, and was never seen again.

* * * 

Prince Arthur grew into a handsome young man.

Court physician Gaius kept attempting to restore his sense of smell, administering elixirs and sacred well waters. He never succeeded.

In his old age Gaius hired an apprentice.

Merlin was a gangly village boy with blue eyes, unusual ears and the brightest smile Arthur had ever seen. The prince quickly averted his gaze and downed Gaius's latest concoction in one startled gulp.

The next day, Arthur's door swung open when Merlin knocked, potion vial in hand. He peeked inside. Arthur lay on his bed, unmoving. A miasma of putrefaction filled the air, the telltale proof of a sorcerer-assassin's magic.

Merlin held his breath, lunged forward, grabbed the prince and dragged him to safety.

Arthur had been oblivious to the stench. If not for Merlin's keen nose and swift action, he would have died.

King Uther immediately appointed Merlin the prince's manservant and personal security-sniffer.

* * * 

Merlin enjoyed his work.

He was cheerful and talkative, but possessed a natural sensitivity; - he held back when the prince needed privacy.

Without making a fuss over Arthur's missing olfactory sense, Merlin started detailing the smells along their way. His descriptive powers proved unique. Arthur became acquainted with the perfume of roses, the salty sea-tang carried by westerly gales, the discomfort from fresh manure, and the pain of stale sweat.

A whole new exciting world emerged, full of scents and odours and the varied reactions they elicit.

Merlin had become Arthur's nose.

* * * 

The king frequently introduced Arthur to eligible young ladies. One evening they dined with the vivacious Princess Mithian. ('Smells like a dewy wild rose', Merlin whispered, pouring wine.)

Arthur as always was polite, but distant. He looked pensive when he retired for the night.

“The princess is very lovely,” Merlin said, gently trying to draw him out.

Arthur had previously remained studiedly aloof on the topic of love and marriage. Now he frowned. “She is indeed, but something is missing. Do you think.... “

He paused, then plunged ahead. “Consider animals. The sense of smell plays a big part in their... mating games. They sniff each other and use scent to gain attention. Are we like that? Is it because I can't smell the princesses that I never feel attraction?”

Arthur sighed.“Have _you_ met someone special, and known by her smell that she's the one?”

Merlin hesitated. “I know the smell of my beloved."

“Could you describe it?”

Merlin looked up, truth plain in his eyes.

Arthur blanched.

Slowly Merlin took his hand and pulled him close, breathing him in. “ _This_ is his smell.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, stunned. “Oh, Merlin.”

* * * 

Merlin was an attentive lover, offering Arthur's four working senses pleasure to make up for the missing fifth.

Loud in his ecstasy, Merlin moaned into Arthur's ears. He let Arthur touch him everywhere and look his fill at Merlin's most intimate parts. They turned love-making into banquets that thoroughly satisfied Arthur's sense of taste, - the many nuances of sweet, salt, sour and bitter.

Merlin dribbled tart apple-juice down his arse, spooned honey across his nipples and kissed Arthur messily with much tongue and a mouthful of spiced wine. Arthur sipped and licked and savoured it all, mapping tastes and Merlin's body.

His hands quested happily across Merlin's pale skin. He lapped up Merlin's salty sweat, suckled his cock to revel in the bitterness of his seed, and snuffled into the moist warmth of Merlin's groin and armpits.

Brimming with gratitude, love and laughter, Arthur bestowed on Merlin the highest praise he had to give. “ _You smell so good!_ ”

* * *

**26**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Gwaine  
 **Warnings:** age difference (16/26), not underage by UK law but references to underage, drug use

Gwaine loves the resinous smell of grass, loves opening the jar and soaking in the piney aroma before he packs the pipe and lights up. He's still half-asleep, mesmerised by the red glow of the embers when the doorbell rings.

He wants to ignore it, but he vaguely remembers his housemate last night saying someone was coming over. He takes a puff, savoring the taste of the smoke, then shoves back his sheets.

"Hey, what's up?"

There's a young bloke at the door. Gwaine doesn't bother to hide the pipe, but he can feel the kid taking in his dishevelled, half-dressed state and judging him for it.

"I'm looking for my sister," he says in this posh accent. Gwaine can't deal with Morgana's relations before noon. Especially one this blond and blue-eyed and barely-legal.

Gwaine turns and yells into the house.

"Yeah, she's not here right now." The kid's shoulders slump and Gwaine notices the duffel he's carrying. Gwaine's an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. "You want to come in?"

Gwaine is starting to feel buzzed and hungry, so he stops in the kitchen to take another hit. He's not sure whether that's kosher but whatever, Morgana isn't here and he's no babysitter. Arthur - the kid introduced himself - trails behind him, looking unsure.

"Hungry?"

Arthur shrugs.

He pulls out the Cocoa Puffs (he always lays in the junk food when he's got good bud) and opens the refrigerator. He forgot to buy milk. He shakes the cereal into two bowls anyway.

"So, you're Morgana's boyfriend?"

Gwaine chokes, shaking his head with his mouth full. "We're just roommates."

It's starting to get to him, the sort of smug detachment with which Arthur keeps looking around at the house, his things, at Gwaine himself.

Arthur brushes his fingers over Gwaine's bare chest and he almost jumps. It goes straight through him - leaves his skin tingling where Arthur touched. Everything feels slow.

"Sorry," Arthur says. "You had a bit of fluff." Gwaine is starting to notice little things - Arthur's crooked teeth, the flush on his cheeks, his scent, a combination of sweat, the train, and Axe deodorant, which Gwaine usually hates but it smells good on him. Sweet.

"Have you ever toked up before?" Arthur nods too quickly.

He relights the pipe, gets a good cherry going, then guides Arthur's hands around it, showing him how to keep his thumb over the choke until he's ready. Arthur coughs hard after his first pull.

Gwaine rubs his back and Arthur leans into him. He takes the pipe back, sucks in a lungful, holding it, then cups Arthur's chin and presses his lips open, breathing the smoke into his mouth.

Arthur keeps his eyes open, looking right at him, and it makes Gwaine laugh, a few wisps of smoke puffing between them. Arthur breathes out slowly, his eyes slipping closed.

"Wow, I can feel it." Arthur sounds awed.

"I thought you'd smoked before?" Gwaine teases.

"I didn't feel anything that time."

Gwaine feels like he has all this energy stored up inside him and watching Arthur get his first buzz is making him horny.

He's not altogether surprised when Arthur pulls his head back down, tongue working into Gwaine's mouth hungrily.

He's an inexperienced kisser, but he's forceful and it fires him up. He scrabbles to undo Arthur's shirt - too many damn buttons. Arthur slides his hands into Gwaine's sweats and squeezes his arse. Gwaine moans when Arthur's finger skates over his hole.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Sixteen," Arthur says, guileless. Well, at least he's not perving on a minor, though the fact that he's ten years older should probably give his conscience more of a kick.

"Fuck," Gwaine says when Arthur bends him over the couch.

He's not sure how they got here, but Arthur's chest is red with beard burn and Gwaine sees bursts of colours when Arthur gives him a hickey. His brain pretty much shuts down when Arthur spreads his cheeks and licks him right there, where it feels like all of his nerve endings are concentrated and his cock is rubbing patterns into the smooth fabric of the couch.

"You're so hot," Arthur says, hot breath and cold saliva. Then his fingers press in. He has lube but it's so far away. He pushes his arse out shamelessly and Arthur fucks into his hole raw. Gwaine feels shattered, coming on Arthur's fat cock and it feels like it'll go on forever.

* * *

**27**

**Pairing(s):** Aredian/Cenred  
 **Warnings:** Hints of voyeurism by third parties

“Would you like to play a game?”

Cenred shows a weak smile despite the wave of intimidation. No, he doesn't; not with Aredian. The Witchfinder’s playful, predatory smile is the scariest sight on Earth. He swallows. “Why not?” And bites into the apple he’s holding. He hopes Aredian hasn't noticed the tremble in his hand. The sweet juices of the ripe fruit fill his mouth and he swallows. His throat is tight.

Aredian pushes Cenred’s half-full plate away and sits sideways on the table. He takes the apple from Cenred’s hand and, still smiling, puts it away. Cenred tries to pull away but the Witchfinder’s grip tightens around his wrist to the point of actual pain. He yelps; tries to mask it with a laugh but it’s too late too obvious and both of them know it. Aredian brings starts to unwrap the cloth around Cenred’s hand. Uncanny feeling takes hold of the latter, as if he’s been dipped into ice-cold water. His guts twist and turn and he feels… embarrassed, as if he’s naked in front of a judgmental crowd.

“You serve fine food, Cenred, but would you recognize what you’re putting in your mouth if you don’t see and touch it, hm?” Aredian murmurs, and blindfolds Cenred with his own cloth.

Cenred hears the heavy step of the guards, and has to lift his now-bare hand to stop them. He won’t present himself a coward in front of the Witchfinder. His men stop and fall back. Aredian ties his hands behind his back. The tight knot of dread and fear tightens in Cenred’s chest, and presses heavy upon his stomach.

“Try to guess the food I’ll offer you.” In the darkness, the Witchfinder’s voice is on another level in instilling fear and terror. His laughter sends ants crawling all over Cenred’s back.

When prompted, Cenred boldly extends his tongue to take the first sliver. Cold and sharp taste prods his tongue and he jumps from the pain. When his tongue is back in his mouth coppery warmth spreads and mixes with his saliva: he’s bleeding. “I didn't know I was to try the cutlery,” he hisses a reproach.

“Blame your own impatience,” Aredian chides him in return.

Gingerly, Cenred opens his mouth and extends his tongue. Something tasteless and wet is pushed against the tip. He licks the smooth surface and it proves small and rather spherical. His tongue runs over a tiny rough patch and he prods the tip into it. “Grape,” he announces.

Satisfaction fills him when the berry of grape bursts between his teeth and the familiar taste of its fresh juice fills his mouth.

He successfully guesses the stringy meat of a pheasant, the tricky ball of bread which Aredian had mashed in his fist, the salty cube of cheese, the sweet slice of the apple Aredian has previously taken from his hand. He can hear his own elevated breathing, and the distant shifting of feet. His guards sound worried, leaving a guest hand-feeding the king.

He is feeling confident and smug until rough, hard flesh presses wetness against his tongue. He startles; immediately recognizes the sweetness of wine, but the other thing? His mouth has watered, and he swallows the drips of wine he’s been offered. His tongue runs over a smooth, bitter-y surface and a soft, salty underneath…

“You’ve dipped your fingers in wine.” Cenred laughs. “Finally a challenge.”

Aredian snorts. “Does the human body present more of a challenge to you, hm?”

Cenred nods and smiles. He hears a rumble of a plate being pushed away on the table, followed by the soft rustling of clothes. There’s a pause, then another rustle. A gasp of horror erupts from the sides of the room; his guards sound appalled, and their whispers are a mess. Cenred only smirks: he knows he has asked for this.

The Witchfinder’s fingers grab a fistful of his hair. Cenred’s head is navigated down; his tongue meets hot, salty flesh, with a musk he can’t mistake. It’s round and soft, and there’s a slit of an opening on the top, which leaks a taste he’s overly familiar with, yet completely unable to describe in terms of taste. His lips close around a ridge. Aredian may think he’s very clever but it’s a game for two, and Cenred’s no loser.

* * *

**28**

**Pairing(s):** Gwaine/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** violence

It starts with a pub fight, as these things often do. It's a mutant pub, the closest thing to a regular Gwaine's had in, oh, years. He's got rather fond of the place, which is why when Dagr starts on the two men who've barely walked through the door, he gets to his feet, claws already extending, and jumps into the fray.

(And yeah, okay, the dark-haired man's cheekbones, and the way his eyes had lit on a smile when his friend spoke, might have something to do with it.)

In a lull in the fight, Gwaine retracts his claws to introduce himself.

"Merlin," is the reply, accompanied by a brisk, gloved handshake.

"Look out!" Merlin's friend hollers, and Gwaine doesn't even think, just throws Merlin behind him so Dagr's attack hits him square in the chest instead.

*

"You're lucky to be alive," Merlin tells him when he wakes, later, in what can only be Merlin's bed, and Gwaine tries not to be too distracted by that knowledge.

"Not lucky," he says, sitting up gingerly. Just because he can heal doesn't mean he can't feel pain. "Mutant."

"Oh," Merlin says. "So it's not just the-" He gestures at Gwaine's hands. Gwaine can't help but notice Merlin's still wearing gloves, even though the room is roasting.

"It's sort of a package deal," Gwaine says, and even though it's fair game, now, doesn't ask about Merlin's mutation in return.

*

In a different pub in a completely different town, caught up in a fight Gwaine mostly didn't start, a gloved hand grabs his upper arm and yanks him out of it.

"I guess that makes us even," Gwaine says, when they're sure nobody's on their tail. His arm is tingling where Merlin had wrapped his fingers around it, and Gwaine wonders what it would feel like if Merlin touched him with bare skin.

"Not quite," Merlin says, grimacing, "since I'm actually here to ask you a favour."

 _Anything_ , Gwaine doesn't say, and hopes it doesn't show on his face. "Oh?"

"It's Arthur. He's in trouble."

*

They're sharing a tiny bed in a safe house on the edge of the city, and the proximity of Merlin's body is _intoxicating_ , even with the careful strip of space between them. It's enough to make Gwaine do something incredibly stupid, but in the end, it's Merlin who kisses him first.

"Sorry," Merlin blurts, flattening himself against the headboard. "Are you okay? _Fuck_ , I'm so sorry."

Gwaine can feel his lips smarting, something heady rushing through his body. "Do that again," he says, hoarse. "Please?"

"I could've hurt you," Merlin says, and Gwaine has to laugh.

"Trust me, that was the opposite of painful."

Merlin's face does something complicated. "If I touch someone for too long," he says, "I kill them. That's just how my ability works."

"Well, luckily for you," Gwaine says, "I'm pretty sure I'm indestructible. That's just how _my_ ability works."

"Not lucky," Merlin says, smiling for the first time since he found Gwaine again. "Mutant."

*

Gwaine gets a hand on the back of Merlin's neck, this time, stroking over the short hairs while he kisses Merlin back. Merlin's shed his gloves like a skin, and he skims bare fingers under Gwaine's shirt and over his belly. Gwaine gasps at the feeling it alights in him, and Merlin snatches his hand away.

"No, no, _good_ ," Gwaine gets out.

"You have to tell me," Merlin says fiercely. "As soon as it isn't, or whatever, just- tell me."

Gwaine just nods, straining up to catch Merlin's mouth again. Merlin's hand slips into Gwaine's boxers, curling sure and steady around Gwaine's dick, and Gwaine turns his head and keens into Merlin's neck. He comes like that, mouthing at Merlin's skin, Merlin coaxing pure pleasure out of him with perfect fingers.

When Gwaine's head has cleared enough, he rolls over and grins. "Your turn."

*

"Told you," he says, after. Merlin's wearing his gloves again, and he's got his head resting on Gwaine's clothed chest, but they're curled up around each other, touching everywhere. "Indestructible."

Merlin lifts his head up, and the smile on his face makes Gwaine feel nearly as weak as his touch. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Save your gloating for tomorrow, after we've got Arthur back, okay?"

"Not gloating," Gwaine murmurs, but he's tired, and Arthur is in quite a bit of trouble, so he just closes his eyes and lets himself be taken by sleep.

* * *

**29**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/his hand, Arthur/Gwaine  
 **Warnings:** No AO3 warnings apply

The dust was thick in the back of the Roundhouse Cinema storage room. Merlin had mixed feelings about going back there; it was dark, and quiet, and he was unlikely to be disturbed as he played and labeled the dozens of unmarked silent film reels that Gaius had sent him to go through. Then again, it was probably full of ghosts.

The old films were candy to Merlin's cinema major heart. The real classics already had labels, but this was one of the oldest film houses in the country, and it had acquired films from other houses as they closed one by one. Most of the films here had never been shown in the Roundhouse, except for in the back room where Merlin worked.

It was late afternoon, and Merlin had seen advertisements for toothpaste, baking soda, dish soap, cars, and condoms. He'd also seen at least a dozen patriotic shorts, and a few feature films. No classics, but one about a man and his dog that had made him grin. Not all of the rolls had actor credits, but he labeled them as best he could, and stored them on the shelves by genre.

He sliced through the blue packing tape on the next box, and carefully loaded up the projector before turning off the lights and sitting back. With the classic blink and tic-tic-tic-tic of white dots on the black background, the film began.

There was no introduction. But then, Merlin thought, perhaps the blue packing tape should have been enough. Two men walked into the scene wearing baseball uniforms, and Merlin didn't know if their team had ever existed, nor did he have time to take note of the name before they were tugging their clothes off to get into the uncannily convenient shower. When they were naked, uniforms folded neatly to one side in a way that Merlin knew would please any mother, one of them turned on the water.

The blonde went under first. Water ran down his face and made him close his eyes, and the light hair darkened and flattened over his head. Merlin watched the tiny rivers form down the man's chest, into the cleft of his hip, down his thighs to where the film cut off just below his knee. And yes, he ogled the man's cock shamelessly, just as the brunette on film took it in his hand to stroke. Merlin didn't need sound to imagine the man's drawn-out moan, not when he could see his head fall back, and his chest heave with heavy breath.

The brunette got into the water too, and did the shoddiest job of getting clean that Merlin had ever seen. He made great heaps of suds all over his body and the blonde's, but managed not to get his own hair even slightly damp- until the other man pulled him under the spray and kissed him hard. Their hands roamed across one another's wet skin, and Merlin could see their muscles flex as they ground against one another's hips when- the wall went white.

The film was over, and Merlin was nearly shaking from arousal. On the one hand, gay pornography of this age, of this quality, and with this much explicit detail should be preserved and recorded with every library in the world. On the other hand- god, he was so hard. He opened his jeans to wrap a hand around his cock. The box had been labeled 1925, and that was all, and Merlin tried not to think too hard about how the men he was thinking about were probably dead as he pictured what came next- the blonde man on his knees, sucking the other man's cock, no, sucking _Merlin's_ cock, light eyes looking up through soaking wet hair, lips tight around the head of his cock, one of those big hands grabbing the back of Merlin's thighs, maybe moaning when Merlin fucked into his mouth, maybe bending over so Merlin could grab his hips and thrust into him, push him flat against the-

Maybe- oh- maybe-

Those eyes were all Merlin could see as he came into his palm, biting hard into his own lip.

When he came back to himself, he was still in a dim back room buried in dust. His fist was sticky and his lip was bleeding. But unlike before, he now had a giant box of porn. Maybe a summer spent cataloguing film wasn't a waste of time after all.

* * *

**30**

Pairing: Merlin/Arthur  
Warnings: D/s, but not really hardcore

It’s dark when he opens his eyes, his eyelashes brushing against something. He means to reach out to touch, but he finds his wrists are tied together, secured to a rope wrapped snuggly around his naked torso. He swallows and it echoes in his head. He realizes his ears are covered. He gasps for breath, feeling the first signs of panic.

A hand caresses his cheek, moves up to card through his hair. It’s gentle, calming. It helps him remember.

_“Whenever you want me to stop, we stop, okay?”_

_“I know. It’s not as if it’s our first scene.”_

_“It’s our first like this.”_

His wrists are untied from his body, led to rest on a pillow above his head. Silky fabric is slid in between his forearm, cold and delicate, making him shiver with anticipation. If he could see, he’d know its colour. Like this, he can only guess if Arthur is in a mood for red or blue.

He tries tugging at the scarf, letting out a shaky breath as it doesn’t let him move far, fastened to the headboard. Lips press to the centre of his chest, move up until they reach hollow of his throat. He tilts his head back, moaning when Arthur nibbles at the skin of his neck.

_”What do you want me to do? Which toys can I use?”_

_“Anything and everything.”_

He’s not ready when the buzzing toy touches his nipple. He yelps and shrinks away, but Arthur is relentless, dragging the vibrator around the sensitive nub. He takes his time, alternating between sides, driving Merlin crazy with changes of rhythm, speed, pressure.

Arthur’s fingers are mapping every inch of his skin, sliding under the rope, tugging at it to remind Merlin of its presence.

_”I might freak out a bit after waking up. Don’t let it deter you.”_

_“I know how confused you can get right after waking up. Maybe you didn’t notice, but we’ve been married for almost six years.”_

_“I noticed you’re still a prat.”_

Moments without Arthur’s touch feel like eternity. His body feels light and he’s vaguely aware he might be on the verge of sliding further into calm waters of subspace. Until something hot lands on his stomach. He gasps, arching his back. More of the liquid fire drips on his chest and belly.

“Oh, god,” he breathes out, no pleasure accompanying the pain. It’s so different from their usual wax play sessions and Merlin outright whimpers when the next spray of wax lands on his body.

“Orange! Orange!” he cries out, more loud than is necessary.

Arthur’s hands are immediately on his face and he’s about to take off the blindfold, but Merlin shakes his head.

“No wax,” he clarifies and nothing more needs to be said.

He relaxes back into the mattress when Arthur methodically peels the warm wax off Merlin’s skin, soothing each burnt area with a kiss. He joins their lips together when he’s done, mouthing something into the kiss. It might be “I’m sorry” or maybe “I love you.” Either way, more warmth spreads through Merlin’s chest and he lets himself go completely boneless.

_”Should I sing you a lullaby?”_

_“Shut up, you clot. I think the pill is kicking in.”_

There’s nothing but pleasure. Pleasure and Arthur. His hips buck up into the air as Arthur circles over his prostate. It’s too much and not enough.

He cries out when Arthur’s hand finally wraps around his neglected cock. Arthur moves both his hands in sync, years of practice reflecting in each movement, each clever twist of his wrist, each squeeze of his fingers right under the head of Merlin’s cock.

When Merlin comes, the feeling shoots through his whole body, every nerve ending tingling. It slowly subsides, turning into a haze of contentment.

He can feel Arthur finding his own pleasure in Merlin’s well-stretched hole. He can feel his fingers gripping Merlin’s leg hard as he pounds into his body. But it seems far away, like a pleasant dream. What matters the most is the calm. Safety. Love.

Arthur takes care of him. He takes off his bindings, carries him to their bathroom, cradles him close to his chest while he waits for the water to fill the tub. Merlin blinks up at him, shuddering as cold tendrils of what would be a start of a subdrop if Arthur wasn’t holding him close run through his body and disappear.

“Okay?” Arthur whispers.

Merlin nods, smiling. He’s more than okay.

* * *

**31**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** none

“Witchcraft!”

Arthur nearly groaned in embarrassment over the murmured accusation as his father ran his finger over one of the numerous clay sculptures in the gallery.

“Not really,” responded a voice from the doorway. “I just find it really easy to pay attention to texture details.”

Both men spun around to face the newcomer. Arthur could practically feel his father’s frown being drawn down like battle armor.

“You are the artist, I presume?” he questioned.

“Yes.” The sculptor took a few steps forward, bringing himself into the room. “Merlin,” he introduced himself with a smile.

“Hmm. My name is Uther Pendragon.” Dragging his hand away from the statue, Uther strode forward with Arthur trailing behind. “I had an inquiry sent to you about painting a portrait of my son that you reject-…”

It took Arthur all of two seconds to see the explanation his father had insisted storming the gallery for.

“You’re blind,” Arthur exclaimed softly, unable to look away from the wide blue eyes that stared unseeingly at his chest.

“Yes, and now I see why my generous offer was rejected without consideration.” Uther’s embarrassment didn’t last very long. “Why didn’t you mention this in your reply? It would have saved us the effort of having to come all the way out here.”

“No, it wouldn’t have.” Arthur’s eyes were still locked on Merlin.

“No?” Uther echoed in confusion.

“I want you to sculpt me.”

It was now Uther’s turn to groan.

+

“I’ve never sculpted a human subject before,” Merlin admitted, palms running over Arthur’s bare shoulders as he walked around him. “You’re much more relaxed than I imagine most people would be.”

Arthur chuckled and tilted his head back, allowing his hair to brush against Merlin’s torso. “And why wouldn’t I be relaxed? Your methods are obvious; I knew you would need to touch me for this.”

+

Arthur’s muscles clenched as clay-stained fingers trailed down his abdomen. He was on his back and doing his absolute best to keep his breathing steady as Merlin’s detailed exploration moved further and further south.

“You’re flexing again,” Merlin scolded, a smile gentling his words.

“Sorry.” Arthur liked to think the apology was still sincere, despite how often he did it.

“It’s alright,” Merlin soothed, one hand trailing up to Arthur’s pectoral and the other down to the groove in his hip, measuring the distance. “It makes things more challenging."

+

“Please, _please_ don’t include this in the finished product,” Arthur begged, one leg propped up, the other fallen to the side. His hands were up, covering his face in slight mortification.

Merlin pulled the foreskin back so that he could trace out the underside of the swollen head.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured. “I won’t.”

“Then why are you still so focused on it?” Arthur gritted out, struggling to keep his hips still.

“I’m thinking about carving this out separately. Maybe adding it to my private collection.”

Arthur’s hands fell to his chest and he laughed.

+

Merlin was in Arthur’s lap, his thighs levering him up and down in a rotating pace. Beneath Arthur’s hands, the flesh of Merlin’s behind was fisted. Both of them were smeared with clay in the oddest places. Arthur could see a dried chunk clinging to the tip of his hair just outside his line of vision.

“I love the way you hold me so roughly,” Merlin admitted breathlessly, his pace shaky. “Like you never want your touch to leave me.”

“You can’t– You’ll never forget my– me –” Arthur struggled to focus.

“Never,” Merlin promised.

Arthur came.

Dimly, somewhere beyond the sound of his own moans, he was aware of Merlin’s fingers fluttering about his face, committing the furrows, sweat, and slackened jaw that etched the image of his ecstasy to memory.

Moments before Merlin followed him down the same path, he pleaded, “Arthur, hold me tighter!” and Arthur did, wrapping an arm across Merlin’s back and up to grip his shoulder.

Left with very little room to do more than simply grind down, Merlin cried out, his body squirming against Arthur’s as he pulsed rapidly against Arthur’s stomach.

+

The finished sculpture was haunting enough for Uther to eye Arthur suspiciously for weeks on end, looking for signs of bewitchment.

The statue of Arthur was nude, with a draped sheet twisted around his waist for modesty (and to hide the fact that Arthur could never stay soft whenever Merlin tried to familiarize himself with that particular area). But what captivated onlookers, beside the astounding attention to detail that could be found in all of Merlin’s work, were the eyes.

Despite being half-lidded, the eyes were staring intently ahead, straight at you if you positioned yourself right, with an intensity that made some people uncomfortable. The gaze was heavy with so many emotions; Arthur was shocked not only to see them on his own visage, but for Merlin to have picked up on all of them through the one sense he did not have…

Within Arthur’s chest, his heart clenched.

* * *

**32**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** none

Merlin takes a cab straight from the airport to the hotel. He really ought to stop at Gwen's, but Morgana is probably there, and that means Arthur is probably there, too. Which means that Merlin...

.. well, it means that Merlin is being avoidant and possibly a bit of a coward. It's been more than five years since he's seen Arthur, and that ought to be long enough to forget.

Merlin sits down on the bed buries his face into his hands. With a sigh he realizes that it _is_ long enough; he can't quite remember what Arthur's voice sounds like when he first wakes up in the morning, or what his odd, tight little self-conscious smile looks like, or what his skin smells like right after a shower.

God. Merlin rubs his eyes and swallows back another sigh. He thought he'd never forget that; he thought he'd never forget any of it. All he has left is a collection of half-remembered impressions and an empty ache the center of his chest.

*

"You weren't at the rehearsal dinner." Arthur offers Merlin a glass of champagne at the reception with a smile that's bland, only vaguely interested. Maybe he's forgotten, too; maybe he's forgotten everything. "I thought Gwen or Morgana would've asked you to be in the wedding."

Merlin glances at his drink, then up at Arthur. "I think ... it was better that they didn't," he says and gives Arthur a half-smile, feels hope leap up in his chest, then sink when Arthur shrugs and glances away from him.

"Yes, well. I suppose." Arthur glances back and looks expectant; he touches Merlin's wrist with warm fingertips.

(He must be so warm, flushed with excitement and happiness and two glasses of champagne. His hands and his lips and his chest pressed to Merlin's back. He remembers that; he suddenly remembers how warm Arthur's skin felt against his own.)

Merlin thinks he ought to say something, to tell Arthur that's it's been so long, maybe they've both grown up and apart enough to be together again. But the moment eludes them, slips away silently, and Arthur just nods and lets himself be tugged into another conversation.

Merlin lets himself drift from the center of the celebration to its edges until he can step out onto the veranda and into the cool evening air.

So that's it then, that's what he remembers after six and a half years and a break-up that felt as if it had torn him up inside: the warm of Arthur's touch. He can still feel it against his skin--lips and fingertips and whispered words against his neck before he wakes up--and it makes him shiver. Seeing Arthur, hearing his voice, brings back all the things he'd thought he'd forgotten: the long mornings spent in bed with Arthur's hands all over his body, the way Arthur would keep him hard and wanting, how he'd last longer for Arthur than he ever would for anyone else.

If he closes his eyes, Merlin can almost hear the way Arthur's breath would catch when Merlin would touch him, when Merlin would bring Arthur off with his mouth.

It's been so long since he's thought about Arthur, since he's remembered about any of these things.

When Merlin feel warm fingertips brush his wrist again, he thinks, perhaps, he's ready to remember more.

* * *

**33**

**Pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin**  
 **Warnings: slight dub-con?**

The Druids had bound his eyes.

Fear and panic rushed through Arthur. He should have listed to his father, placed his faith in his father’s wisdom as he always had. If he only been patient, he would not be here now: naked and blindfolded, bound to a chair.

Arthur turned his head side-to-side trying to make sense of the sounds: hushed voices, footfalls on the stone floor. He had the prickly feeling of being watched and he could only assume that they were standing around the periphery of the room.

Suddenly all the sound around him ceased.

“This is the one who has sought us out,” someone said.

Arthur assumed that someone new had arrived. Perhaps the leader he had been seeking? He strained to hear but the new voice was too quiet.

“No, he came to us. I don’t know how he found us. Should we be considered?”

Once again, Arthur could not hear a reply, but he did hear movement and the sounds of retreating footsteps. Had the newly arrived Druid dismissed everyone else?

“What have you come here?”

Startled, Arthur jumped in his seat, the bindings allowing very little movement. He didn’t realize that someone was directly in front of him.

“I…” Arthur stammered nervously. He took a few deep breaths, gathering his courage and trying to remember that despite this exposed position, he was the Prince of Camelot. “I came on my own. I seek knowledge. I seek an alliance.”

The immediate dismissal that Arthur feared did not come. Instead he heard a soft hum as if the Druid was considering his words.

“Your kingdom has not been kind to my kin. We have been hunted and killed. Tell me, Prince, why should we help you in anyway?”

Arthur bowed his head. “None of that harm has been my wish. I came here alone knowing the risk. I wish to change things. I want to bring peace to the kingdoms.”

Arthur could feel the Druid circle his chair.

“What would you do for these changes? What would you give for peace?”

Arthur raised his head and faced the Druid so that if his eyes weren’t bound they would be eye-to-eye.

“Anything.”

Arthur heard the rustle of fabric then felt the warmth of another body as the Druid stepped into Arthur’s space.

“Understand that this would bind you to me the way the seasons are bound to the earth. Though you may take other lovers, or marry someday, our bound can never be broken.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “I understand.”

The Druid stepped closer, slotting himself between Arthur’s spread legs. Arthur gasped as he felt warm, long fingers encircle him and being to stroke him into hardness.

Arthur wished that his hands were not bound. At first he felt vulnerable, totally exposed to the Druid, but after a minute he was whimpering and tugging against his bindings, longing to touch the other man in return.

When Arthur was hard and leaking, the Druid stepped back for a moment and the scent of oil and herbs filled his nose. He positioned himself on Arthur’s lap as he stroked Arthur once, twice more with slick fingers before raising himself up and slowly lowering himself onto Arthur.

Arthur gasped as the tight warm heat surrounded him. When the Druid was fully seated, he paused for a moment and spoke a few breathless words in a language that Arthur did not understand. But before Arthur could question anything, the Druid had raised himself back up and slammed down onto Arthur’s cock.

Arthur growled and tried to gain leverage, to pump his hips up to meet the Druid’s movements. He felt a warmth surround them both. Underneath the intense pleasure he felt safe and connected, and grounded in a way he had never felt before.

And then they were both coming. Arthur didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours.

Still impaled on Arthur’s cock, the Druid pulled the fabric free Arthur’s his face. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness he was finally able to take in the man straddling his legs. He looked no older than Arthur, though Arthur could still feel the magic, old and ancient inside of him.

“I am bound to you,” he whispered in awe.

“And I to you,” the Druid replied, leaning forward and brushing the first kiss across Arthur’s lips.

“What may I call you?”

“My people call me Emrys, but you can call me Merlin.”

* * *

**34**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** None

Arthur is nine years old when his arm breaks.

He feels the sharp snap of bone and the radiating, unbearable pain.

Only - he's sitting down, coloring, when it happens.

\--------

“It's a bond,” the doctor says. “A strong bond, by the look of it.”

“What do you mean it's a _bond?_ ” Uther snaps. He gestures to his sobbing, pitiful son sitting on the exam table. “Look at him!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the doctor says blandly, “but phantom pains can happen to bonded individuals. It's considered a gift, you know. His partner likely has one to the same effect. The most common are phantom feelings, unconsciously wandering to the bond mate's location, and mind reading. Only the strongest of bonds have an effect this severe. You should be proud.”

“ _Proud?_ ” Uther sneers. “He's in pain!”

Arthur whimpers in agreement.

The doctor sighs.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “But there's nothing I can do.”

\--------

“No, no, no. You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Arthur whispers to himself.

Arthur's in his first semester at university, sitting in the front row of his class, and somewhere in the world his bondmate is having a wank.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Arthur moans quietly.

The feeling of his bondmate's hand working over his cock is familiar, now. He has a certain way of rolling his fingers, twisting his wrist, and rubbing his thumb over the tip that drives Arthur mad every time. Normally he just sits back and enjoys the ride, but _now_....

As casually as he can manage, Arthur slips off his jacket and puts it over the hard tent in his lap. His teacher – a short, blonde woman with a droning voice – doesn't seem to notice his discomfort as she crosses in front of his desk.

His bondmate's hand starts moving faster, desperate now. Arthur's face goes red from the mix of pleasure and embarrassed panic. His hips hitch up before he can help it, and he has a white-knuckle grip on the edges of his desk. He can feel his bondmate is close, he's gonna – he's gonna – _fuck_.

“ _Mnn_ ,” Arthur moans and jerks in his desk as he comes.

The entire class goes silent.

“...Arthur?” His teacher says tentatively. “Are you alright?”

_oh god, oh god, oh god_

“I – uh, don't feel good,” Arthur answers shakily.

He must look wrecked because his teacher immediately dismisses him and shoos him out the door.

Arthur makes a beeline for the bathroom to clean himself up, and in the middle of wiping jizz off his cock, he feels his bondmate getting hard again. Arthur laughs weakly and bangs his head against the stall door.

“I hate you,” he says, more fondly than he means to.

\--------

 

A freshman is stalking him.

Arthur is in his third year of university, and he's been on campus for two days, and everywhere he goes there's this gangly little freshman with a lost, doe-eyed look on his face.

Arthur would find it cute if he wasn't so annoyed.

On the third day of stalking, the freshman plucks up the courage to actually talk to him, and by that point Arthur kind of wants to punch him on principle alone.

“Hello,” the freshman says with a nervous smile.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks tersely.

Freshman raises an eyebrow. “Well, Mr. Rude, I keep getting lost.”

“And?”

“And since every time I get lost, I end up next to you, I figured I'd ask if you knew the way back to Albion Hall.”

Arthur pauses, and he feels his body go cold with shock. _Unconsciously wandering to the bondmate's location._ Could he - ?

“Give me your hand.”

“What?” The freshman looks alarmed. Arthur doesn't blame him.

“I'll tell you where to go, but you have to give me your hand first.”

“Alright...”

The freshman lets Arthur take hold of his hand, and Arthur pinches him, hard.

He feels it as if he's done it to himself.

“Ow!” The freshman yanks his hand back and pecks a light kiss on the wound. “If you don't want to help, just say so!”

Arthur laughs. He laughs with a manic, relieved joy that bring tears to his eyes.

The freshman is looking at him like he's crazy. He probably is crazy. It's with a great effort that Arthur composes himself, but he's still smiling widely. “I'm sorry. You're right. I've been terribly rude. My name is Arthur.”

He holds out his hand to shake, and the freshman very carefully takes it. “I'm Merlin.”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says fondly. “I'll help you find your way.”

* * *

**35**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Crossdressing

There was something about the smooth slide of satin over skin that Arthur adored. He’d grown up jealous of the comfortable dresses Morgana got to wear while he was stick with fabric that itched and felt too tight and confining.

So he stole one of those dresses from Morgana’s closet.

It had been a lovely light blue sundress, made of soft cotton. Arthur had been young enough that it hadn’t been too much of an awkward fit on him. He remembered standing in front of the mirror and twirling, just to see how it looked, how it felt, and ended up laughing joyfully at the peace and happiness such a simple act gave him.

He’d never told a soul. Not until Merlin.

Merlin who noticed his longing gaze at the women’s gowns when he had to buy a new suit. Merlin who saw him lovingly finger the soft pastel fabrics when Merlin supposedly dragged him to the sewing store he frequented, being a fashion student. Merlin who saw but never judged, never pushed.

He’d done something much better.

Arthur had had a late night at the university library, pouring over old texts about the history of the reformation in England. By the time he got back to the flat he and Merlin shared, he was shattered. That is, until he saw the carefully wrapped package on the couch with his name written on it.

Arthur had always been curious as well as impatient, and tore into it straight away. Merlin would have hidden it away if it was a birthday or Christmas present that had been bought early. As he ripped away the tissue paper, however, Arthur stilled.

“I made it myself.”

Arthur whipped his head around to see Merlin leaning against the doorframe, a gentle smile on his lips.

“W-What?”

“You look like an angel in white, and you posh people do love your expensive satin.” Merlin teased lightly, coming to sit beside Arthur on the couch, reaching over to lift the babydoll out of the box. “You can wear it whenever you want, and I can make anything else you need.” His voice was soft as he placed the garment in Arthur’s hands.

Arthur looked down at it in wonder, unable to help stroking the smooth fabric, only just resisting bringing it up to his cheek.

“But why – “

“Because you like it.” Merlin interrupted, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, as if they were talking about what they wanted on their sandwiches. “And I love you.”

Arthur was speechless, staring at the babydoll in his hands – pure white with red stitching that made him smile. Before Merlin could say anything else or, god forbid, take it back, Arthur threw his arms around him.

“ _Thank you_.”

He could feel Merlin’s own smile as long fingers twined through his hair. “You’re welcome, love. Would you like to put it on now?”

Arthur nodded shyly, letting Merlin take the lead as the other man helped him to his feet. He didn’t object as Merlin started undressing him, moving as needed until he was bare before his lover.

“Raise your arms, baby.” Merlin murmured and Arthur obeyed, his eyes falling closed as he felt the satin slide over his skin. It was almost like standing under a waterfall, the fabric just this side of cold and gentle as it fell into place on his body.

Arthur smoothed his hands over the satin, his breath catching as it had when he was younger, twirling in front of the mirror in his sister’s dress. And now he had his own.

Merlin yelped as Arthur attached their lips together in a desperate kiss, pressing his lover back into the couch before straddling him. “Is this….is this okay?” Arthur asked softly, nervous despite his bold actions.

“More than okay.” Merlin assured him, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist and giving his bum a cheeky pinch through the satin, making Arthur gasp.

It didn’t take long until they had pressed themselves together, grinding on each other to bring them the release they both so desperately needed. There would be time for romance, for proper playing later. This was to take the edge off, for Arthur to show Merlin just how much he appreciated all he did for him.

Later, despite the drying come over it ( _“I’ll get it out in the wash tomorrow, Arthur.”_ ), Arthur fell asleep with the soft silk over the babydoll resting against his cheek, curled into Merlin’s embrace.

* * *

**36**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warning(s):** None

Merlin got his little red Toyota the summer after they left sixth form. It was the exact same day that Arthur bought _Definitely Maybe_.

“I’ve been perpetually smelling of grease for three years to get this car,” Merlin said. “Why should _you_ get to pop my stereo’s cherry?”

“Hate to break it to you, but I think maybe it’s gone for a few rides already.”

Merlin shushed him. “I’m sorry, baby.” He stroked the dashboard, fingers sliding over the buttons of the stereo. “Arthur’s being a right dick as usual. He doesn’t know our love is pure.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and settled back in his seat as they pulled out of Merlin’s driveway. “I’m sure its last relationship involved Vanilla Ice.”

“Don’t use that kind of language in front of my stereo. Fucking Christ.”

Arthur snorted and opened the album case, sliding the booklet out. He mouthed the lyrics as he read them while they drove in silence, the window slid almost the entire way down in the summer sun.

“Oh god, OK, “ Merlin said, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Just pop it in.”

Arthur grinned.

*

Merlin’s mouth tasted like ice lollies, all sticky-sweet.

They didn’t talk about it.

*

“It hasn’t even been a week.” The breeze ruffled Arhur’s hair as he rested his head by the open window, peering out at the flawless day outside.

“You’re the only person in the universe who listens to an album until they want to puke from it. I’m switching to Radiohead.”

“That’s the only way to listen to an album properly, you heathen. It doesn’t really settle in until you’ve heard it so many times you can hear the next track before it comes on.”

“You’re a fucking nutter, Arthur.”

“I’m not the one who thinks Radiohead is appropriate for summer.”

“ _Pablo Honey_ transcends seasons, you dick.”

Arthur hid a smile as he looked at Merlin out of the corner of his eye. The tip of Merlin’s tongue swept over his bottom lip and Arthur followed the movement, breath getting stuck in his throat.

Leaning across the space between them, his heart creating some odd harmony with the opening bars of _Up In The Sky_ , Arthur pressed his lips to Merlin’s neck. A strangled sound passed Merlin’s lips and Arthur mouthed against his skin, the taste of summer on his tongue.

“Fine, fine, you can keep bloody Oasis on,” Merlin said, voice strained, and Arthur laughed against his neck, leaving goose pimples in his wake.

 

*

“Please,” Merlin whispered, hand guiding Arthur’s fingers over the inside of his thigh and down to the rim of his hole.

Arthur held his breath, lungs burning, as the tip of his lube-slick finger traced the rim, hand shaking. God, he had no idea how this worked. He hadn’t prepared for this: Merlin naked on the grass, thighs spread wide and his fat cock hardening.

Merlin’s fingers dug into his wrist. “Arthur, fuck. I do this to myself all the time, I want—”

A little pressure was all it took before Merlin opened up around him, yielding and accepting, and Arthur nearly pulled out in surprise as Merlin’s body went limp, his lips parted in bliss. It was a miracle Arthur hadn’t covered them both in come already.

And fuck, he should be nervous that they were outside, that maybe they’d be seen, but the car shielded them from the path. The music spilling out from the open door enclosed them in a little world of their own, one where Merlin was unbelievably smooth inside.

“This is unbelievable,” Arthur said, mouth dry. “Fuck, I’m _in_ you.”

“Not enough of you.”

“Ungrateful twit,” Arthur said, ducking his head to hide a smile. He watched himself disappear into Merlin’s body and moaned, pushing in a second before he could doubt himself.

Merlin’s eyes flew open and he pushed his hips down against Arthur’s hand. It was fucking disorienting to realise that his fingers were moving inside someone. And it was Merlin, too, who he’d never even seen like that, not until the sticky sweetness of his lips.

Arthur leaned down and caught Merlin’s bottom lip in his mouth, swallowing Merlin’s desperate little moans.

When he got three fingers inside Merlin’s arse, Merlin was riding his hand, a flush blooming from his cheeks to his chest. And Merlin came like that, Arthur buried deep in his arse as Merlin gave a final sob.

It was definitely maybe the best thing Arthur had ever done.

* * *

**37**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur, Merlin/Freya  
 **Warnings:** Major character death

She grew cold and cruel, centuries alone will do that to the kindest soul, and she was never supposed to be so powerful, her allotted burden was simpler, she lost herself to the cat and tore soft bodies to shreds, but she had always come back to herself. 

He did this to her. 

He set her adrift on the holy lake, but he didn’t let her go, he tied her to the water, to the dark depths and the chill which would infuse her bones. At first he visited her, sat by the edge and talked to her and she was able to remember the gentle girl he wished her to be. But after the other one died he forgot her. He still visited the lake but he spoke not to her, he whispered lovingly to the other one, he spilled his searing, mocking tears for the one he loved best, had always loved most, and she withdrew, let the ice waters claim her and strip the illusion of flesh from her ghostly body, until she _was_ the water and the water was her, and so she grew in strength, the villagers made offerings to her, the fishermen begged her favour and all the birds and beasts flocked to her and took her into them and left a part of themselves for her. And so she grew, she became everything and everything was her.

Still he came and mourned for the other one, until he barely knew himself, but still he remembered his lost king. So she pulled weeds around herself to make a body and lifted a skull from her bed, washed brilliant white by the years and raised herself from the water and spoke to him, not as the child, not as a sorceress, but as a goddess, and he had to listen.

He was old and broken by grief and his wisdom had been lost to time, so when she made the offer he agreed readily to her terms. She would bring forth the body of his lover, which had lain in her cold depths for so many winters, she would lift him from the silt and Merlin could swim down and spend one night with him every year, on one condition, Merlin must not look on him, if he did she would keep them both forever.

Merlin stripped off his clothes and his years, diving into her waters a lean young man in his prime, she shivered against his warm skin and nipped at his ears, he had not touched her in so long, and she licked at his mouth, reminding him she had been the first to taste him. When he reached his lover’s arms he ran his fingers over the familiar muscles, he squeezed his buttocks and tested ridged scars, he kissed the strong nose and weak chin and tasted full lips, all this with his eyes closed, but he knew his lover, he knew Arthur. He knew the shape of Arthur’s cock as he eased it between his legs and the tearing pain as it pierced him, unprepared. He remembered the pace of Arthur’s thrusts and the imprint of his teeth in his neck. It had been hundreds of years, maybe thousands, since he had felt Arthur’s embrace and he recognised every divot in his flesh and every flutter of his heart, and as he grasped his fingers in Arthur’s hair and as Arthur’s cock found the tender spot inside that made his legs clench tight, his eyes burst with tears and he saw Arthur before him, bathed in diffuse green light, golden hair waving like fronds, and as he watched, Arthur’s eyes widened in terror, his lids peeling back to reveal the orbs of his eyeballs, his cheeks sunk in and dissolved, leaving him with an ugly grin, his hair came out in clumps in Merlin’s hands and his hard, beautiful penis withered to nothing inside Merlin. 

Merlin screamed silently as Arthur decayed in his arms and the cold lake-water rushed into his lungs and guts, claiming him, freezing his cells, absorbing his magic. Freya cradled him in her eddies, rocking his fragile body, lifeless and ancient, until his flesh too became one with her waters. And long after she had forgotten the names Freya and Merlin, forgotten what a man even was, she treasured the glint of gold in deep blue depths and the memory of the memory of a warm touch.

* * *


	3. Group C (warnings)

**38**

**Pairing:** Gwen/Morgana  
 **Warnings:** none

“Only stir in one direction,” Morgana scolds, placing her hand over Gwen’s on the spoon, their fingers interlocking with easy familiarity. “You’ll confuse the food.”

“Confuse it?” Gwen asks, raising an eyebrow, but she leans back into Morgana and lets Morgana take over stirring. The sauce is more fragrant than anything Gwen cooks back home; try as she might, nothing ever matches cooking with Morgana here, in the warm kitchen of Morgana’s apartment, tucked away in the corner of a converted castle in Siena. Sometimes Gwen thinks it might be the tomatoes they buy, or perhaps the herbs they use -- she’s seen whole hedgerows of rosemary here. _Hedgerows_. 

“Pay attention,” Morgana says, and gooses her gently. “You’ll never learn anything at all this way.”

“I know enough,” Gwen protests. She knows the way olive oil should look as it’s poured into a pan, and she knows the sharp green scent of it when it’s fresh from the pressing. She knows the taste of wine from Morgana’s vineyards and the way it weighs heavy and soft on her tongue -- the way it tastes from Morgana’s lips, when she can’t help but pull Morgana close with the crook of a finger. She knows how sweet Morgana’s fingers are, when they make panna cotta; she’s learnt exactly how the muscles in Morgana’s arms flex as she kneads the dough for pici. 

Morgana huffs, a warm puff of air on the back of Gwen’s neck, and Gwen shrugs her shoulders, rolling her head back carefully against the tickle. “Incorrigible,” Morgana murmurs, but she puts her free hand on Gwen’s waist and sets the spoon aside, covering the sauce to thicken. “We’ll have to boil the pasta in a minute,” she warns, but Gwen doesn’t spare so much as a glance at the tiny ravioli she’d spent an hour filling. 

“In a minute,” Gwen agrees, turning around in Morgana’s arms and pushing her out of the kitchen, with its walls of strange paintings and copper pans, until she can bully Morgana onto the sofa they’d abandoned earlier.

“Wine?” Morgana asks, though her eyes are bright and fixed on Gwen’s mouth.

“Later,” Gwen says, and pushes the last few inches to Morgana’s lips. 

Morgana sighs into the kiss, easy for it; easy for Gwen. She’s a queen in the kitchen, a tragically -- and suspiciously -- widowed countess in the papers, but here, like this, she’s only Gwen’s. 

They’re nothing but fleeting moments, these long summer days when Gwen gets to take Morgana into her arms and lick splatters of tomato sauce and chickpea soup from Morgana’s skin, eat bruschetta and pecorino straight from Morgana’s fingers. The sun hangs low as it sets over the cypress and the caper vines; the oleander and dianthus Gwen picked for the table caught in the last light of one more day they’ve lost. By the time the figs are ripe, Gwen will be gone again, leaving Morgana to supervise her harvest and test new recipes all winter.

Gwen doesn’t like to think on that. She slips her hands along Morgana’s thighs instead, sliding up inside her skirt easily. Morgana spreads her legs and lets her, reaches back greedily to push the straps of Gwen’s dress down and run her fingers over Gwen’s breasts. They don’t break the kiss; Gwen thinks sometimes she’d be happy never moving from Morgana’s lips, lost chasing the taste of Morgana’s gasps. It’s the work of a moment to slip one finger inside Morgana -- two -- letting Morgana squirm around them before she starts to thrust, gently, barely rocking her fingers deeper while Morgana makes pleased, desperate noises and shoves Gwen’s dress down to her waist.

They’ve long since laid the table for a meal fit for a queen, and the smells wafting from the kitchen to wrap around their bare shoulders are more than heavenly, but this, here, -- Morgana under Gwen, inches from breaking -- this is the only feast Gwen’s ever wanted.

* * *

**39**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** prison setting, trauma  
Merlin stared at the crack in the ceiling above his head, barely visible in the dim light. It was his constant companion in long, dull nights such as this. It didn't stop him from counting the days, though. Counting the days since he last saw the sun. 

He heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming from the bunk below. The grunts and sounds of flesh slapping flesh were familiar to Merlin by now, after sharing a bunk with Edwin for so long.   
Merlin pushed his head into the thin pillow when the smell of sex and sweat invaded his nostrils.   
Two months and twenty-three days that Merlin had been in this hellhole of prison nicknamed 'Cenred's pit'. It was a pit in the literal sense, underground, the outside world barred behind thick, steel, magic-suppressing doors.

Everything below was a dull grey, like the walls that surrounded, or their uniforms and the food they were allowed to eat. It didn't take long before a prisoner's skin turned grey.

Merlin's dreams were grey. 

The guards wore white uniforms. To Merlin the colour now set off warning bells. He didn't want to be stung by their tasers, evil devices that turned whatever magic was left inside of them against them.

"Hey, Harry Potter," Valiant called out to him from the shower opposite Merlin. 

Merlin didn't turn around to glance at him. 

"Why don't you join me in my bunk tonight, huh?”

Merlin ignored him. 

One of these days the reputation he had as a powerful sorcerer wasn’t going to be enough to keep them away from him.

He got out of the shower before anyone else did, walking back to his cell feeling anxious. 

When a hand wrapped around his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He saw the flash of white and knew it couldn't be Valiant. He was only slightly reassured. The guards never touched them. Whatever they wanted the prisoners to do, they would simply order it. But the warm hand on his shoulder remained where it was, pushing Merlin slightly forward. Merlin didn't struggle even though something was clearly off. 

"Where are you taking me?!” Merlin was surprised by the sound of his own voice, cracking and unfamiliar. 

He didn't turn around to look the man in the eye. It was easier to not know the faces of the ones that kept you prisoner. 

After they had turned around a corner the hand was gone. Merlin felt a pang of relief mixed with regret. It had been so long since he'd last been touched, even casually like that.

A heartbeat later, hands were covering the sides of his face, forcing Merlin to meet the eyes of the guard. 

"Arthur!" Merlin croaked. Merlin felt dizzy from shock. It couldn't really be Arthur, could it? 

"Hush," Arthur whispered alarmed, looking around to see if anyone had heard. "I'm getting you out of here. But we have to careful."

Merlin stopped breathing for a second then nodded. Arthur took his hand and showed the way. 

The transition to the real world went gradually; the whitewashed walls at the other side of the doors, the dingy parking lot, and Arthur’s car with tinted windows. But it did hit him fully, when they arrived at the safehouse. Being outside, the sun bright and warm on his face, Merlin heaved and whatever was left in his stomach got out. It was a sensory overload that hurt just as much as it felt unbelievably good. Arthur held him through it, hand going through Merlin's messy hair and stroking his dry, chafed skin. It was only when he felt Arthur's hands get wet that he realized he was crying.

Merlin wouldn't let Arthur leave the room for even a second. Best of all he felt in Arthur's arms. Relishing in every bit of warmth and skin contact. 

When they were lying on the couch that night, amidst the "missed you" and the "I knew you would find me", Merlin felt Arthur slowly getting hard underneath him. A sudden hunger consumed him. He reached for the zipper on Arthur's jeans.

"Wait, wait." Arthur started, "we don't have to... Not tonight, not if you don't want to."

Merlin stopped for a second. He _did_ want to. He wanted to feel real again and he'd missed Arthur desperately. "Yes, yes, I want this. Please!" 

Covered in kisses and Arthur’s cock entering him inch by inch, Merlin felt his body come to life again. When he came, he saw stars.

* * *

**40**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** hurt/comfort, Merlin!whump, near-starvation, possible dubcon/inability to consent

Arthur cursed himself for being an incompetent fool. 

He had found Merlin, bound and injured, in a tiny hut deep in the forest. But in his haste to act on his intuition, Arthur had broken some of the most basic rules of a search. He had gotten separated from his men, and he had come without any food or supplies. 

He managed to get the rough ropes off Merlin, but it was clear that he was half-starved and dehydrated. Arthur had nothing to offer him but a water skin and some strips of dried meat that were too tough for the weakened man to eat. 

It was almost dark by the time he found Merlin, and while Arthur knew that his men would turn around and search for him, it seemed unlikely they would find him and Merlin before night fell. 

Merlin looked terrible, and Arthur doubted that he had eaten anything since his kidnapping three days before. The bones of his wrists were sticking out, and his face was gaunt, skin stretched tightly over his cheekbones. 

He'd been half-conscious when Arthur found him, and Arthur had done the best he could for him, giving him small sips of water. He’d wrapped Merlin in his cloak and started a small fire in the center of the dirt floor. The hovel was so ramshackle that the holes in the ceiling would act as a chimney. 

At first Merlin had seemed close to death, not reacting at all, but Arthur had pulled him into his lap, hoping that the cloak and his body heat would warm him. 

He knew that his single water skin would have to last until morning. He tried putting the jerky strips on a curved rock and softening them with water, but they were still too hard and Merlin was too weak to eat them. 

Arthur had to fight down panic. If Merlin died before morning, he would never forgive himself. 

Finally Merlin roused a bit, and seemed to recognize Arthur. He even managed a weak smile, and moaned, “Arthur.” Merlin tried to say something else, but the words were so thin and reedy that Arthur had to put his ear next to Merlin’s mouth to hear them. 

“I’m so hungry.” 

Arthur racked his mind. Reassurances wouldn’t keep Merlin alive until help came. He didn’t even have a cup to heat some of the water to warm Merlin. 

He considered going out in the dark to look for some berries or mushrooms, but he couldn’t risk falling and hurting himself so that he couldn’t get back to his love. 

The thought came to him, _I don’t want him to die alone._

And then he got angry, and said aloud, “He isn’t going to die!” 

He half-remembered something from his youth, some maids gossiping about giving head, and how swallowing semen was good for their complexions. One of them was starting to say something about semen being a healthy food, but then they had seen him and stopped talking. 

Arthur took a deep breath, then stood and pushed down his breeches and smallclothes. Arranging Merlin’s head between his legs, he raised his flaccid cock to Merlin’s lips. Merlin was so sick looking that Arthur couldn’t look at him and be aroused, but he closed his eyes and stroked himself, remembering the first time he and Merlin had lain together and how exciting it had been. 

He felt himself hardening, remembering how he had insisted on Merlin being on his stomach the first time, to make it easier for him to be breached, and how Merlin had been so eager that Arthur had had to hold his arse firmly to keep him from just shoving back without care. He remembered how Merlin had looked back over his shoulder, eyes dark. 

Arthur was hard enough then, and he brought himself off quickly and efficiently, making sure that the come went to the back of Merlin’s throat and that he swallowed it all. 

He knew it would only be a couple of tablespoons worth, but it was better than nothing. 

Merlin’s pulse seemed a little stronger after that, and they dozed off. Arthur woke to tend the fire, and was able to come down Merlin’s throat twice more that night. 

In dawn’s gray light, Merlin looked somewhat better. The knight’s finally arrived, and gave Merlin bread soaked in wine. Arthur promised, “When we get home, I will feed you apples and honey.” 

Merlin summoned a small smile. “I liked the taste of what you gave me last night.” 

* * *

**41**

**Pairing:** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** None

The summer Merlin visits his mother in Ealdor, Arthur finds himself in Merlin’s bed.

The first time, he collapses on it in a melodramatic show of exhaustion, telling Gwen she should just leave him there to perish, that they’ll never find Merlin’s hidden sketchbook. Gwen, being equal parts nurturing and cheeky, carefully slides a thin, unsatisfying pillow under his head and secures a ragged, chafing blanket around his shoulders.

“Good night, little prince,” she says in a soft voice, then kisses him on the temple.

Something about the gesture makes a hard lump form in Arthur’s throat, and he buries his face in Merlin’s pillow to keep Gwen from seeing it on his face. He hears Gwen’s quiet footsteps, then the door closing, and then he’s left in Merlin’s awful little bed. He falls asleep almost instantly.

He sleeps through the night, completely dead to the world. His dreams are full of strong hands and thick lips, his cock wrapped up hot and tight.

He wakes up humping Merlin’s bed, and he’s a bit horrified at first, but then he starts feeling smug, like this will teach Merlin to leave him for the summer with _George_. Arthur spreads his legs and presses harder into the pathetic mattress, but it’s not enough, not enough, not enough until he buries his face in Merlin’s pillow, a gesture of frustration that hits him in the balls and slams him into a brutal orgasm.

Arthur is sucking it down, the smell in Merlin’s pillow, something sharp and dark that fills his head with a haze, his only thought a steady hum of _more_. He inhales until he’s light-headed, until he can’t smell anymore, until his whole face hurts from it and he feels sick from all the dust in the room.

His breeches are a mess, and he’s humiliated, but he sneaks Merlin’s pillow out with him anyway.

It’s fine for about three days, until Arthur has used up all of whatever that _smell_ is, and then he’s back in Merlin’s room, crouching on Merlin’s bed and fucking his hand while he’s got one of Merlin’s dirty shirts up against his nose. He cries when he comes this time, because the scent is so, so fucking good and he never wants to lose it.

By the end of summer, everything Merlin owns smells like Arthur, and it’s driving him _mad_ , not being able to duplicate the scent.

When Arthur finally sees Merlin again, some of the leaves have started to turn, and he’s _furious_ , and he wants Merlin to acknowledge the hell he’s put Arthur through. And the first thing out of Merlin’s mouth is, “Why does my room smell like you?” and it’s simple, not at all sexy, and Arthur can’t process anything but that Merlin recognises his scent.

There’s no thought involved in pressing Merlin against the wall and lifting his arms above his head. Merlin squawks a bit, then laughs, then fucking _moans_ as Arthur buries his nose right there, right where Merlin smells the most … whatever it is he smells like.

Arthur doesn’t realise he’s moaning until Merlin says, “Fucking fuck,” in his usual eloquent fashion, and Arthur pulls his head away slightly, sees the dark look in Merlin’s eyes.

“You smell—” Arthur starts to say, but then Merlin’s hand is in his hair, pulling hard, and the only direction Arthur can go is down.

Merlin shoves Arthur’s face against his groin, says, “It’s better there,” and fucking _fuck_ , Merlin is right, because it is better there. Merlin’s cock is hard and he smells _so. fucking. good_. Arthur rubs his face all over Merlin’s crotch, his skin aching from the chafing fabric.

Merlin’s the one who manages to get his trousers off, his thick cock smacking Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur’s dumbfounded for a minute, just staring at the dark hair Merlin’s got there and thinking how fucking amazing he must smell there.

“Suck my cock, you fucking tease,” Merlin says, and Arthur stuffs as much of it in as he can, because all he can think of is getting his nose as close to Merlin’s magical skin as possible.

(Later he learns that licking Merlin’s arsehole is perhaps the most perfect thing a man can experience, that Merlin goes from ticklish to aroused in the span of about four seconds, and that while Merlin likes the way Arthur smells, what really gets him off is the feel of Arthur’s body hair. It takes all kinds.)

* * *

**42**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Possessive Behavior

“Would you have me fucked in the stocks?”

Merlin's lips were visibly wet with saliva. Arthur still had the reminder of a sweet honeyed flavour of the mead and delectable, appreciated warmth of Merlin's mouth.

The words just as filthy in their implications, stirring waves of lust. Arthur fought off a gaping look.

“Does the thought of being publicly humiliated with your arse bared to the common-folk give you satisfaction…?” he asked, voice rumbling.

Merlin dismissively chuckled, grinning. “No, it's… you never fucked me in the stocks is all.”

“I think you'd enjoy tormenting them and my knights.” Arthur didn't let go of Merlin's hands but thrust his cock up, lips upturning. “Perhaps it's the thought they know you are mine and need no one else? Would they long to see you abandoned to pleasure, to feel you tightening around them?”

Arthur's lips created a path over Merlin's neck, flicking his tongue over a nice, warm, reddened welt. His nerves hummed at Merlin's half-naked body squirming under Arthur's weight.

He released Merlin's hands. 

Arthur could have gotten off on this, on Merlin's heat and his large cock flush to him, hearing his own name leave Merlin's lips in furious ecstasy.

It was merely talk. Arthur wouldn't _dare_ let any of his father's knights have Merlin, have him pliant and begging, willingly or coerced.

“I'm not fucking you in the stocks, Merlin.”

“Pity,” Merlin said with a hint of sarcasm. 

Arthur's hand repositioned underneath Merlin's head resting on the bed's pelts. They only had the wee hours of dawn now before Arthur would be summoned. The boy arched wanton into him, nearly tremoring. Arthur's tongue nudged against Merlin's, encouraging it to move with a similar pace. His lips found Merlin's throat, kissing downwards.

He opened his mouth against bare, sweat-tasting skin, sucking another welt. If Merlin woke with bruises, he wanted Merlin to understand who they were from.

Arthur's hands crawled to Merlin's night-shift, fingers smoothing Merlin's abdomen before dragging in his fingernails.

The little sighing noises leaving Merlin only hardened Arthur's prick. He disengaged from Merlin, taking the hem and yanking up impatiently. 

“Take off these rags,” Arthur said, quietly.

As soon as he did, Arthur's hand trailed the inside of Merlin's firm thigh. He was a _reward_ to all of Arthur's senses. He needed Merlin in the eve-fall, those pale cheeks colored dark, eyes bright. Hands pushed against Merlin's legs, lifting them back slightly when Arthur had spent inside him with a couple, breathless thrusts.

Arthur considered mouthing the warm puffiness of Merlin's bottom lip until he felt Merlin surge forward, this time chastely.

While it was lovely, Arthur's veins were still hot with blood, and he wanted Merlin so fiercely. Arthur's fingers dug into black locks as he kissed the boy roughly, wet lips sliding together. As soon as Arthur felt him melt into it, he let go of Merlin's head, licking along the swollen rim of his lips.

His seed cooled insides of Merlin's thighs, and along the crease of his arse where Arthur's fingers roamed lazy.

He rubbed on the stretched pucker. His forefinger slipped easily into that _glorious_ , damp heat. Arthur didn't wish Merlin anxiety or to believe he was trapped… but Arthur expected he wouldn't take kindly to someone debauching his manservant… his friend… his… whatever Merlin was now.

“Uugh, _sire_ …”

He probed another finger between Merlin's cheeks, rubbing down again, gently to his slick opening.

“If you're not going to fuck me, I'll do it myself then,” Merlin spat out.

Arthur grit his teeth at the sudden, vibrant image of Merlin with color high on him, dark head thrown back, fingering himself open and moaning at his own gestures. He mimicked his imaginings, twisting and plunging his two fingers deeper inside. He worked them in, out, in Merlin's oil and come-dripping hole, arching slowly and gradually apart while seated within. 

It was… _magnificent_. All that blazing heat, how full Merlin was.

“You're impossible,” Arthur said, muttering. “ _Impossible_.”

His tongue laved over a tender, bruising mark. He felt Merlin's entire body spasm helpless beneath him, muscles and his channel going taut with the orgasm before relaxing.

Merlin's whining cry swallowed from existence, devoured in Arthur's throat and his greedy mouth.

He craved every sensation Merlin could give him willingly, and would spare none for any others.

* * *

**43**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:**

Arthur wasn’t used to smelling nice smells. Fresh, cleanly scents were a rare find in Camelot. With so many living in the city the air never seemed as breathable as the forest air outside it. The only time the castle smelled halfway decent was when a feast was prepared, and the strong scent of whatever was cooking spread through the halls. Still, that wasn’t exactly refreshing.

The prince was used to the smells, he’d grown up smelling them, and also relishing in the nights of his baths when the scents finally seemed to fall from his skin. 

Because yes, Arthur never really smelled that nice either. 

It was a fact, Arthur just _knew_ once he walked through the gates of Camelot, everything stank.

Of course, like most the facts of Arthur’s life, this one didn’t apply to Merlin.

Bloody _Mer_ lin.

Arthur still remembered the first time he’d caught a whiff of Merlin’s distinct scent. Arthur had pulled Merlin’s backside flush against his front. The scent, so close, strong, gathered heavily at the top of Merlin’s neck and in his greasy hair. 

Entering Merlin’s personal space was like stepping into the deepest, greenest part of the forest. He had a smell that just made Arthur want to breathe and the scent clung to Merlin loyally, even throughout his running around Camelot. 

Then Arthur started to pay more attention and he noticed the scent was alive. It grew and changed as much as the emotions shown on Merlin’s face. Arthur unconsciously studied the scents as he and the servant spent more time together. He’d learned he didn’t like the burnt stench of Merlin’s anger. Or the sour tang of wildflowers that wafted through the air when jealousy ate away at Merlin’s face. 

He'd learned that it was insanely distracting . . . 

Which was why Arthur was proud he’d lasted so long. 

Arthur found himself nearly twitching to hold Merlin down and bury his nose deep in every crevasse of the servant's body. He wanted to pin Merlin to the bed and rub until the scent of Merlin was all he could smell on himself for days.

Arthur always knew, too, that the day he'd snap would be a day Merlin overflowed with pleasantness. A day when Merlin smelled of nothing but spring. 

Merlin changed Arthur and this close the prince could smell how happy Merlin was, how content Merlin was to be with him. And the scent of it was overwhelmingly good. 

Arthur was topless, suddenly, and Merlin was backing away from him. Ripping the scent right from Arthur's nostrils. 

Arthur had pulled him back before he'd even processed it’d gone.

One hand found Merlin's hip while the other one thrust through Merlin's hair and held tightly. Arthur stuck his nose right in the deepest dip of Merlin's neck. Where his ear, and the sharp line of his neck and jaw met. Arthur licked his lips and swore he could taste the scent melting into his tongue. 

The long stretches of Merlin's skin were like barely hardened honey as Arthur licked along them. But the dark, warm spaces in between were bursting with the too fresh scent of sprouting plants and sticky pollen. 

Underneath, in the folds of his legs, Merlin smelt somehow more basic, but no less intoxicating. There was the manly scent of his leaking cock, bitter as Arthur took it in his mouth. Both the natural bitterness and the strange sweetness grew as Arthur flipped Merlin over and opened him with his tongue. Merlin lost all control and Arthur felt much the same as he shoved fingers in and out of Merlin and lapped at the tightly pulled ring around them. At that point he couldn't tell what parts of Merlin he was tasting and which parts he was smelling. 

Arthur thought the sensations couldn't grow anymore, couldn't get any stronger than when he buried himself in Merlin, and fucked him until the servant cried out and came in spurts as he clenched around Arthur. But then Arthur came, deep and long inside Merlin, and it was like Arthur could pinpoint the exact second their scents met and Merlin's accepted his own. The exact second they melted together and became one. Nothing was better than that. 

Arthur never really smelled bad again, but he didn't know if it was permanent thing or not. They never really stopped fucking long enough for him to figure out. 

* * *

**44**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** -

When he wakes up the sky’s grey, the air frigid, and the frosty grass under him prickles through his tunic. His first thought is that it might snow soon—the wind carrying that fresh, sharp smell that speaks of incoming winter.

He coughs, chokes, then vomits water over the ground.

***

The nights are still the strangest. 

Arthur wakes to the sound of a lorry driving down the road—breaks screeching high as it stops at the corner. It still makes him twitch—an aborted movement to grab a dagger under his pillow, a sword by the bed—with a surge in his blood that has him wide awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the engine as it fades in the distance.

He holds his breath until the stillness returns, but just as he thinks he can breathe, it’s broken again by the lights of a car passing over the walls, the sound of tires over wet cement.

“Arthur?”

Merlin stands in the doorway, backlit and tall. 

Arthur didn’t remember him being this tall before—taller than him. 

“That’s because you were too busy thinking your Royal Ass superior to everyone else’s,” Merlin said when Arthur had commented on it.

“And whose fault is that, Merlin _‘Oh Arthur, you will be the greatest King the world has ever known’_ Emrys?” Arthur had replied around a mouthful of macaroni and cheese—Arthur was a big fan.

Arthur pushes the covers aside without a word as Merlin closes the light and the door behind him. For a moment Arthur can’t see anything, can only hear the soft padding of Merlin’s feet on the floor until the bed dips under Merlin’s weight. 

As usual, Merlin manhandles Arthur until his head’s on Arthur’s chest, then wraps an arm around his waist—his body a long, warm line along Arthur’s.

When he’s certain that Merlin’s comfortable, Arthur reaches around and covers Merlin’s ear with his hand, lets him hear proper the _thump thump thump_ of Arthur’s heart. 

***

“I got you something,” Arthur says one night. He reaches out to turn on the bedside lamp, its yellow light soft and spilling over half of the room, but bright enough to make Merlin groan and turn his face into Arthur’s chest, rub his nose over it, all wrinkled with annoyance and sleepiness. 

“Arthur what—” Merlin starts, jolted out of his doze when Arthur puts the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope over Merlin’s cheek. “Jesus, where—”

“Off the internet,” Arthur says, and he knows he sounds smug, knows this is as much a surprise to Merlin as the object itself. Arthur enjoys doing that—surprising Merlin with little, unexpected things that make him look half awed, half proud of Arthur.

“Off the internet.”

“Mmmmhmm.” Arthur twists the stethoscope in his hands. “Julia helped me,” he admits after a long moment of silence as Merlin sits straighter and stares at him. “But it was my idea.”

He fits the earpieces over Merlin’s ear and places the other end and over his own heart.

Arthur watches as Merlin’s face does this—this _thing_ , sort of crumbles and twists like he’s going to cry for a moment. His hand settles over Arthur’s, pushes the diaphragm into his skin. 

“Arthur—”

“I’m here, Merlin,” he says, and his voice breaks a little, enough for Merlin to look back from their joined hands to his face, eyes searching. “I’m here.”

Arthur barely hears the cars passing by, only sees their lights passing over Merlin’s face as he hitches his hips against Arthur’s, eyes closed and teeth biting his lip. He blows harsh little breaths through his nose, one hand beside Arthur’s head, the other still pushing the stethoscope over his heart.

Arthur moves his hips against his, pushes his hand between them to wrap it around Merlin’s cock, already leaking over Arthur’s fingers.

Arthur feels open and striped bare, knows that Merlin can hear every pump of his heart, the gasping breaths—every hitch, every sigh, every gasp. There’s no place to mask the deep resonance of his moans or grunts, the whimper he’d normally suppress when the head of his cock slides in the groove of Merlin’s hip with perfect friction.

He can’t hide; Merlin hears it all.

And when Merlin comes, Arthur wipes the tears off his cheek with his thumb, dragging come over his face by accident. Merlin glares, even through his shudders, and Arthur laughs, happy in the knowledge that Merlin will hear, inside each heartbeat, every word he hasn’t learned yet how to say.

* * *

**45**

 

 **Pairing(s):** Arthur/Gwen/Merlin, Gwen/Merlin (implied Arthur/Merlin and Arthur/Gwen)  
 **Warnings:** a teensy bit of D/s, reference to canon character death

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep. Their position still feels a little off, but the smell of the sheets is perfect: it’s Arthur’s insistence on luxury and order, with the barest whiff of the last time he fucked Merlin into the mattress.

“I expect you to count,” says Arthur, and Merlin nods, face rubbing against the sheets, stomach tensing in anticipation.

His _one_ comes out in a grunt of surprise, not pain. _Two,_ it’s good, no need to say anything else, Arthur wouldn’t want him to, but after _four_ he mutters “harder.” The next three slaps to his arse are sharper, surer, but still not quite what he’s hoping for.

“Hold still, Merlin,” Arthur says testily, and Merlin has to smile, because he _would_ know. “I’m doing you a favour here. That doesn’t mean you’re going to get everything you want.”

“Yes, sir, thank you for reminding me,” Merlin says, and goes on counting, eight, nine, forgetting his frustration as the hurt deepens and blooms, fourteen, fifteen, and it’s almost like Arthur’s really there when he says,

“That’s enough. Get this wet for me now.”

A spanking’s a spanking, brutal or sweet, no matter the age or the technology, it has him hard and panting and ready. But Gwen’s fingers in his mouth can only be Gwen’s fingers, earthy and soft from her work in the garden, and Merlin can only suckle them lovingly, savouring the taste and the moment for itself. With Arthur he’d take them in greedily, impatient to get their length inside him. 

She moves quickly anyway, following Arthur’s script: “Two at once, the way you like it.” Her fingers twist into Merlin’s arse while Arthur asks “Are you ready, Merlin?”

“Yes!”

“Wait a second,” says Gwen, pulling her fingers out, “I don’t know if I am.”

“ _Please!_ ” Merlin whines.

“Okay! Hold on a sec, this dick-wielding business isn’t as easy as the girls in the pornos make it look.”

Then Merlin has to laugh and twist around to watch her. Gwen’s kneeling on the bed, naked and lovely, her breasts full, the dildo jutting out purple and thick. She frowns as she fiddles with one of the straps at her hip.

“How do you like that?” asks Arthur’s voice. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Gwen, and reaches back to pause the recording on her laptop. “Sorry, should’ve practised this more before he left.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You’re brilliant,” he says, stretching out on his back now, wondering why he ever thought to hide his face when he could be taking in a sight like this. “But are you almost ready to fuck me?” 

He pulls his legs up over her shoulders and Gwen grins, spreads some lube on the dick, lines up and carefully, eagerly, pushes in.

This is new for her, Merlin thinks, groaning and yielding and watching, watching. She only half believed him when he whispered that _they_ were lovers first, before either of them ever looked at the prince that way. She doesn’t remember the flower she gave him to put in his hair, the times they chased each other through the corridors of the castle, the way he tumbled her into bed or the way she shrieked with laughter with his head between her legs.

This Gwen has only known Merlin since last year, when her Arthur found him. She’ll never know, thank God, the way he sat beside lonely campfires with his eyes shut, pretending he was about to feel Arthur’s hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t remember the awful silence of Camelot in the years after, when they searched so desperately for comfort in each other’s arms.

So in a way this is new for Merlin too. He’s never been with just this Gwen before, beautiful Gwen who’s jerking his cock with a firm grip as she thrusts into him again and again. Just Gwen, but with the certainty that Arthur is theirs and will be with them again – most likely giving orders that Merlin will make Merlin shiver and Gwen roll her eyes – as soon his latest tour wraps up. 

“I love you,” she says, with wonder in her quiet voice.

“Yeah,” is all he can get out while she’s fucking him full and steady like this.

“Both of you, so much.”

He spurts in her hand and can barely nod. His head falls back on the bed and his belly’s a mess with cum. What a great and glorious time this is to be alive.

* * *

**46**

**Pairing(s):** Gwaine/Percival  
 **Warnings:** Underage

Gwaine and Percival were hanging out in his room playing FIFA after school when Gwaine brought it up.

“Have you ever sat on your hand until it fell asleep and then jerked off with it?”

Percival's player took a horrible shot. 

“Fuck!” Percival shouted. He paused the game. “No! Why would anyone even think of that? Have you?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine said with a shrug. “Feels like someone else is pulling you off.” 

“You know what that feels like too?”

Gwaine had fooled around with Elena a few times, so technically it counted when he said 'yes'. 

“Oh,” Percival replied, looking down at the controller in his hand. 

Percival sounded disappointed, which gave Gwaine the courage to ask, “Do you want to know what it feels like?” He looked up at Percival with the most flirtatious look he could muster.

“Er, are you offering?” Percival shifted. Gwaine could see the tent starting to grow in his shorts. 

“You know I've been dying to get my hands on your cock. Why do you think I flirt with you all the time?” Gwaine ignored the blood rushing to his cheeks with his confession. Percival was one of his best friends. Unless Gwaine's suspicions were right, this could totally ruin that. 

Percival tensed. “I'm not some big gay experiment. Just because I came out to you doesn't mean you can take advantage of me.”

“That's not fair,” Gwaine insisted. “I've wanted to touch you since way before I knew you were gay. Like, since we started taking group showers after footie practice.”

“But Elena...” Percival started.

“Bisexuality is a thing, you know.”

“You're bi?” Percival started to relax.

“Did you not just hear me say I've wanted to get my hands on your prick forever. You've played an important role in my sexual awakening. I don't think straight blokes think about touching their best friend's junk all the time. Well, sometimes I think Arthur might have a thing for me...”

“Gwaine, shut up.”

“Gladly,” Gwaine said.

Percival tossed his controller aside as Gwaine scooted closer across the bed. Gwaine ran his hand under Percival's shirt before dipping below the waistband of his shorts. Percival was breathing hard as Gwaine's hands roamed down. 

“Will you take them off?” Gwaine asked.

Percival lifted his hips and pushed off his shorts along with his pants. 

“Your cock is perfect.”

“Shut up.”

“No, but it is,” Gwaine said. 

He gripped Percival's cock with confidence, although it was all bravado. Percival was bigger than Gwaine and the angle was a bit awkward. 

Percival's prick felt heavy in his hand, but it also felt right. Gwaine liked the way Percival whimpered a little when Gwaine ran his hand loosely up and back down. He liked musky scent, so much different from the way a girl smelled, but just as good. He thought about bending down and taking a lick, but a blow job wasn't what Gwaine wanted to do just yet.

He wanted Percival to come apart under his hands.

“What do you like?” Gwaine asked breathlessly.

“You can grip tighter.” 

Gwaine squeezed. Both boys let out a groan. Gwaine started to stroke up slowly. 

He traced along the thick vein that ran down Percival's length. Then he used his thumb to bring Percival's foreskin up over the head. Percival shivered.

“Like that?” Gwaine asked.

“Yeah, right there. Right where your thumb is.”

Percival didn't give any more instructions, but Gwaine figured with the way Percival was panting, he was doing all right. He sped his hand up and tightened his grip, twisting his wrist with each stroke. 

“I'm gonna,” Percival said right before his body stiffened. 

Gwaine felt Percival's cock throb and pulse right before come started to spurt out the top. Gwaine continued stroking him through his orgasm. 

“Fuck that was hot,” Gwaine said. He looked down at his hand covered in Percival's come. 

He'd always been tempted to taste his own but never had the nerve. But this was different. He brought his hand up and licked around his fingers.

Percival's guttural “fuck” made Gwaine look up. Percival was looking at him with awe. 

He pushed Gwaine down on the bed and tugged at Gwaine's jeans. 

“You don't have to--”

“I want to,” Percival said, before shutting Gwaine up with a kiss.

* * *

**47**

**Pairing(s)** : Elena/Gwaine  
 **Warnings** : Blindfolding, outdoor sex

Blindfolded, I lay on my back as my favorite rogue teased me with his cock. 

Brushing it up and down my lightly furred opening, he made no attempt to actually penetrate me. I groaned loudly and to force him into me but he leaned away and I cried out in protest, my hands tugging at his shoulders, trying to coax him back. 

His voice was a husky growl in my ear. "What is it, what do you want? Tell me or you won't get it." 

"P-p-please!" 

I shuddered deeply, gasping for air and moaning with desperation. 

"Please what?"

"Oh, God! Please, please I need you.I need this... I...”

He brought his fingers back to play with my clit and I squealed and bucked against his hand, clinging to his shoulders for support.

"What, little girl? What is it that you need me to do?" 

My breathing was ragged, panting gasps punctuated by deep groans. "Please, please I need you inside me!" 

"What is it you need inside you so badly?" 

He was rubbing his cock all around my slippery hole now, still pulling away when I tried to lean into him. 

“Oh for God’s sake, Gwaine!” I shouted in frustration. “Just fuck me already! Give me your cock, you fucking tease!”

I groaned aloud in relieved pleasure when he finally thrust forward and his cock plunged deep inside my wildly aroused body. Without sight, the feeling was incredibly intense. I bit my lip and suppressed the whimper that rose in my throat.

"Don't do that,” he demanded. “ I want to hear what you're feeling."

I let the whimper free. 

Moving slowly, he withdrew his cock almost to the very tip before slowly sliding its full length back inside my grasping cunt. For the first few strokes, I simply lay under him, reveling in the sensations of his flesh in mine, the delicious stretching of my inner walls, the hot friction of skin rubbing skin, the exciting squelching sounds made by his rhythmic penetration. Finally instinct forced me to begin thrusting my hips in time with his, lunging up to meet him on every downward stroke. 

"Yeah, that’s it, move with me... yes... like that... oh God, so tight... so wet... so hot!"

I leaned up and sealed his mouth with mine, cutting off the stream of words. Even in this extremis he couldn’t seem to stop talking! Our mouths remained locked together as his rhythm quickened, his strokes turning to lunges, each thrust reaching deeper than the one before. I released his mouth as my whimpers became a keening wail that spiraled to a scream as my throbbing body snapped taut and began to convulse, wave after wave of unbearable pleasure washing over me.

As I bucked wildly and arched against him, he grabbed my hips in powerful hands and continued to pound into me with feral passion. I could hear him growl as his thrusts became erratic. I felt small rocks and twigs scraping against my back and buttocks as the force of his lunging powered me over the ground. I didn't care; I was just as wildly inflamed. 

I clawed at his back with my fingernails and took whatever flesh of his I could between my gnashing teeth, meaning to leave marks. I shuddered to another orgasm as I bit down on his neck and screamed into his skin. His cock continued to piston in and out of my greedy, grasping pussy and his grunts building in volume. I could feel the sweat pouring off him, running down his chest and arms. I licked at the salty fluid as I continued to savage him with my teeth. Shudders wracked me as I continued to moan in the aftershocks of ecstasy.

He howled as he slammed his hips forward one last time and began to shudder against me. I felt his heat fountaining inside as my pussy clenched around his jerking cock. He stayed like that for a long moment, his body wracked by small convulsions , his hoarse voice deepening into a soft growl once again as he fought to regain his breath. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my trembling body tightly to his. Taking me with him as he rolled over onto his back, he made to remove the blindfold but I stayed his hand.

“Leave it on a while,” I said, grinning as I pressed my cheek to his chest and listened to the pounding beat of his heart. “I love the way you look like this."

* * *

**48**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** NA

For as long as anyone can tell, people have been born with strings on their fingers. Invisible to all but the connected, these strings start off colourless but can cycle through many colours in one lifetime. The druids call them "destiny threads", for they only form between those fate has chosen for each other.

Merlin is born with five strings on his right hand. As a child, he liked to wiggle his fingers and watch each of them tremble and pull taught. When his mother makes the decision to send him to Camelot he goes willingly, eagerly anticipating finding at least one of his connected.

The first one he meets properly is Arthur. With the adrenalin of the moment, it isn't until Arthur has his hand behind his back that he feels his thumb pulsing. When they throw him to the dungeon floor, he finally gets a look at his hand and sees his thumb string glowing a faint blue.

In his first week he meets three more of his connected. Gwen's thread instantly turns a sunny yellow. Morgana's is a slightly darker shade but it's yellow all the same. Kilgharrah's is an odd waxy orange, the colour of his eyes and Merlin files that away for closer inspection later. Arthur's confuses him. It pulls on him when he and Arthur are apart in a way the other threads don't and Arthur refuses to acknowledge its existence.

Arthur either can't see the thread or pretends it doesn't exist. Sometimes Merlin is convinced he can feel it; the times when he angles his hand to pull Merlin along by the thread speak volumes, but they never talk about it. Not even after Arthur risks his life for the Mortaeus flower and Merlin wakes to find the thread has finally settled on a colour - faint but permanent red.

Over the years, the colours of Merlin's threads change. Mordred appears to claim the final string, starting blue and ending a poison green. Morgana's fades to a sickly green before landing on dark emerald. Gwen's stays a stalwart yellow, but the tension lessons as she grows into a queen and their relationship fades. The only change that takes Arthur's thread is the darkening of the red. Merlin would be embarrassed about it but Arthur never acknowledges it.

Until the last day. On the last day, when two of Merlin's threads have already faded to black and turned to dust, and Arthur is dying in his arms. He presses their right hands together in a way they haven't touched since that first fight, and Merlin feels the pulse once more. Arthur looks down slightly and in that moment Merlin knows with every fibre of his being that Arthur knows, that Arthur has always known. As he looks out over the water and says his final goodbyes, his thread is red as ever and trailing after the boat in its wake. 

It's not long after that day that Kilgharrah's string darkens and falls. He returns to Camelot and does his best to aid Gwen, and their thread glows gold once more. It's in her last days she tells him that her thread with Arthur was never red, and that it had fallen off at the moment of his death.

For a thousand years, Merlin walks the earth alone, the red string on his thumb the only reminder of his past life. Until one day, it moves. It's only a slight vibration but it's enough to have Merlin pushing through time and space to find what's on the other end. Arthur is barely out of the lake before Merlin crashes into him and knocks them both back into the water.

They have no need for words and let their lips and hands do the talking their voices cannot. They pull and tear at each other's clothes in an overwhelming need to get closer, to say all the things denied to them in the past. As Arthur leans over his back, he joins their right hands together. The pulse of rightness that shoots through him is amplified by Arthur pressing in behind him. It feels like sanity is restored after years of living in darkness and Merlin clutches at it desperately, willing the pain of memory to be erased.

When they collapse together, spent and covered in mud, Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin's middle, tangling their fingers together. The pulse from their thread isn't quite as strong anymore, but to Merlin it's the best thing he's ever felt.

* * *

**49**

**Pairings** Elyan solo, Gwaine/Eira/Percival, implied future Elyan/Gwaine/whoever  
 **Warnings** Audial voyeurism

He woke to a scent, overwhelming, like lying in a field of moonflowers in full bloom. It slipped inside his brain, shaking him with the sense of being surrounded-

"Good morning!" said the nurse, her voice whisper-rough, yet like a shout. She fluffed the flowers in the vase by his bed, and the rasp of stem on petal echoed in his ears.

"Wha-" he croaked, his own voice too loud, the lights too bright-

"You had an accident, Mr. Smith," she whisper-shouted. "We did an MRI while you were unconscious. The doctor will be in to talk about it with you in a moment. Do you have a headache?"

Was that what this screaming pain was?

"She'll want to run more blood tests, and probably another MRI now that you're awake...."

They did not, in the end, run another MRI. He couldn't go near the machine; he only made it into the hallway once they offered noise-canceling headphones and dark wrap-around glasses.

"Heightened sensory perception," Dr. Lake whispered, somewhat more effectively than the nurse had. "You may learn to dial it down yourself, but until then, you'll need to give yourself regular breaks from stimulation to avoid headaches."

They sent him home with the glasses, headphones, a smell-canceling plug (that smelled overwhelmingly of plastic and soap), and a recommendation that he find a new job.

Yeah, they weren't going to take him back at the construction site anymore, if he could even stand to be there.

So Elyan sent an email to his boss (on his new solid drive laptop on the dimmest screen setting), sat down on the crappy sofa in his apartment, and thought.

####

He avoided emailing Gwen because she would take time off from grad school to help, and then there would be loans due. He avoided most of his old friends too, telling everyone he was fine, almost fully recovered, and would be switching to a less dangerous career.

This left him with an unfortunate amount of time to sit around in his very much not soundproofed apartment.

He already knew the bloke next door was named Gwaine, but he would definitely have known after that night. And the next. And the whole weekend.

The woman's name was Eira and the other fellow was Percival, which he wouldn't have known without his new senses. At first, he tried to distract himself with very quiet music, but Gwaine was shameless.

"Right there, baby, harder, mmph-"

The creaking bed, the harsh breathing, painted a very clear picture of Gwaine on all fours while Eira rode him with a strap-on, the straps creaking in counterpoint to the bed. Percival sat back against the headboard with his hands in Gwaine's hair, every so often shutting Gwaine up by shoving his mouth down on Percival's cock.

Elyan had been good. He hadn't touched himself in five days, but this was too much. His hand stole down and rubbed his swelling cock through his trousers.

At least touch was one thing the accident had left alone, so he didn't go off at the first brush of fingers. But he did jerk and swear, clawing at his belt.

The scrape of his zipper so loud that for a moment he thought they had to hear him, but then he remembered that he was the only one with enhanced senses. They were safely cocooned in their own sounds. He felt a flash of envy.

Then his hands were down his pants, one forming an o to stroke him hard, the other fondling his sack.

Gwaine was whining now. Eira called him her good boy, while Percival leaned forward to give him two sharp smacks on the inside of his thighs before pulling his head back down. Elyan hissed and squeezed tighter, wishing he had someone else's touch to ground him-

He came hard when Gwaine did, little aftershocks of pleasure and envy shivering as Percival started eating Eira out with Gwaine's moaned encouragement.

####

The next morning he came home from a practice walk, wearing his full gear and determined not to be embarrassed about it. As he turned the key in the lock, the door next to his opened and Gwaine leaned out, tossing his ridiculous hair.

_Percival's hands in his hair oh god-_

Gwaine grinned, interrupting Elyan's panic.

"I notice we've been neighbors for months, and I never invited you over for a drink," Gwaine drawled. "Fancy one sometime?"

"Uh, sure. When?"

Gwaine cocked his head. "How about now?"

* * *

**50**

**Pairing(s):** Merthur  
 **Warnings:** bad(?) 90s dance music

Arthur could hear the strains of reggae and R&B inspired dance music even as the lift opened on his floor. _Someday the neighbours are going to call the police, he thought._ But he wasn’t going to say anything to Merlin, oh no. No. On the days when Merlin played this Pandora station loudly Arthur knew what was coming. 

And he wanted it so much. When Merlin took over from him, topped him, made him feel so good, god, fuck yeah, Arthur wanted it. 

Because Merlin was always turned on when he’d been dancing around the flat to the Shaggy station on Pandora for hours, and Arthur always got turned on watching Merlin shimmy and move. And them Merlin would take him.

He closed the door to his flat behind him, but softly. Inside the music was almost deafening, and Arthur dropped his bag and toed off his oxfords. He shed his jacket, slid off his tie, and was pulling his shirttails out of his trousers as Merlin saw him. 

A dark light lit Merlin’s eyes, and he shimmied his body around to the Bob Marley song currently blasting through the lounge. The snake tattoo that curled around Merlin’s side seemed alive, and made Arthur’s breath catch in his throat.

Merlin made his way slowly toward Arthur, who was dragging his shirt off his shoulders. By the time Merlin was close enough to touch, Arthur was down to just his tan trousers, and Merlin, not missing a beat, reached out to pull at Arthur’s belt. 

Soon Arthur was dancing with Merlin, stealing kisses against Merlin’s neck, sliding a hand along the tattoo, shifting his hips and his hardening cock against Merlin’s pert arse.

Not speaking except to sing along, Merlin turned in his arms and pulled at his belt. When Merlin had his cock free, he dropped to his knees and, with one hand to his own crotch, took Arthur’s length down to the base. 

Arthur groaned then, carding his hands through Merlin’s dark hair and clutching at his ears, shouting his encouragement and fucking Merlin’s mouth to the rhythm of the Shaggy song playing through the flat.

Merlin teased his balls and arse, making Arthur’s knees weak. Soon Merlin had Arthur on his back on the carpet, legs in the air, arse open to Merlin’s tongue and fingers. And then Merlin’s cock was breaching his hole and Merlin was singing Jay Z’s “Big Pimpin’” into his ear as he fucked him, deep, so deep, making Arthur see stars, hitting his prostate until he was cumming, cumming all over Merlin’s naked chest and his own beside.

Merlin was ruthless, even as Arthur cried out it was too much, too much, too sensitive, begging Merlin to have mercy. He fucked him, angling Arthur’s leg for better purchase, sawing into him until Arthur hardened up again, nailing his prostate until another orgasm overtook him, leaving him boneless with pleasure and spent passion.

Still Merlin fucked him, taking his pleasure in time with Montell Jordan’s “Get it on tonight” ( _why the hell was that on this station_ , thought the part of Arthur’s brain that was still aware of his surroundings thought), until Merlin too was spasming, pumping his load into Arthur’s arse, collapsing atop the blond and kissing him, sliding a tongue deep in Arthur’s mouth and murmuring, “Needed you so much, so much, I’ve been hard for hours, fuck, I hate your job.”

* * *

**51**

**Pairing(s):** Freya/Morgause  
 **Warnings:** Possible self harm triggers, background violence

The rain had passed, and the weather had grown warm; the soil in the garden was damp and hot betwixt Freya’s fingers as she planted her seedlings, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face.

 _Clump – clump – clump_ she heard. She knew the sound for horses’ hooves before she heard the rattle of a bridle. She turned her face upwards and saw the misty shadow of a man upon horseback.

“Which way to the road, miss?” Not a man – a boy. His voice was too high for a man.

The road was not far east, and it had often born men on horses lately. Freya’s Eyes had seen them. There was to be a battle to the north. “East.” She pointed.

The boy on the horse didn’t ride away. “Are you alone?” he said. “You ought not be alone. They say there’s a witch in these woods.”

Freya gathered up her basket and straightened. “I don’t fear witches. It’ll be dark soon, and it’s a long ride to the road. You’d be best to stay here a while. I’m sure your battle will wait.”

The boy hesitated; then, to her relief, he dismounted.

*

Freya’s Eyes came back to her before dark, while the boy was stirring the pot for her. Her black cat streaked through the door and onto her lap, and at last she could see the boy. He was younger even than she’d thought; too young to be riding off to war. “How old are you, boy? How many summers?”

“I am eighteen.” The boy ladled stew into two bowls. It was a lie if Freya had ever heard one.

*

But that was not the lie; no, she saw through the lie the next morning. She was woken by the boy moving about her cottage, and she set her Eyes watching him. While she sat crouched indoors by the hearth, Freya’s eyes watched the boy strip off his leather armour and chainmail, strip off his clothes, and wash himself – wash herself at the pump outside.

A girl, then – a girl of eighteen, a woman, with blonde hair and a husky voice. Freya said nothing. She fed the girl again and sent her on her way.

“Is it true what they say?” said the girl as she mounted her horse. “Is there a witch in these woods?”

“There’s a witch in all woods.” Freya stood with her Eyes clutched to her chest, watching, watching the girl ride away; once the girl was out of sight, she dropped the cat and let it race into the woods to chase birds.

*

The girl came back bleeding. Rain was falling, and Freya was without her Eyes. It was good that her ears were keen, or else she might not have heard the sound of the horse’s hooves and the girl might have laid upon the ground all night.

“I know who you are,” said the girl as she lay inside, bandaged and feverish. “I solved your riddle. You’re the witch.”

“Hush, now,” said Freya. “You sleep now.”

*

“My name is Morgause,” her voice was a low hum, “and you are a witch.” She had bled through her bandages twice now, but Freya would heal her. She would.

“I am a witch,” she echoed. She sat straddling Morgause’s hips, a hand pressed to the place where she was bleeding. When she took it away her palm was hot and bloodied. She stripped off her shift and pressed her hand to her own abdomen, marking herself.

“You mean to kill me,” her voice came, sluggish, at the sight of the knife in Freya’s hands. But she did not struggle. She lay still while Freya cut open her palm and smeared her own blood on Morgause’s hip.

“We will be joined,” she said; and she began the incantation.

*

Freya did not need her Eyes. She saw Morgause’s body through her fingertips. She ran her hands down the woman’s flanks to her thighs, firm and muscled from riding a horse.

“You are a witch,” said Morgause, but now there was no fear in her voice, only wonder. 

“Yes.” Freya parted her thighs and ducked her head between them, lapping like a cat drinking milk at the hot, golden place she found there. 

“Yes,” Morgause agreed. “Yes. _Yes_.” Beneath Freya’s fingers her skin grew hot; beneath her tongue and her lips, Morgause grew wet.

Later, while Freya mouthed at her breasts, Morgause said, “will you teach me?”

* * *

**52**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** reckless behaviour, suicidal tendencies, car accident, a bit of blood

Inspired by David Cronenberg's "Crash"

 

For a moment there's total silence, deep and disorienting after the screech of metal when their vehicle collided with the steel barrier, and the thump of impact with the ground. Then there’s the hiss in Arthur's ears, loud and uncomfortable, until it turns into the hammering of his pulse and the frantic in-and-out of his breathing. It's like emerging from ice-cold water: lungs paralyzed at first and then working double-time, painfully so.

Before Arthur even forms the thought "I'm alive" his brain screams, "Merlin!" 

He tries to see through the smoky haze of dusk, crawling slowly to something resembling a body. Merlin’s limbs are spread unnaturally, but not enough to feel like a huge "no."

"Merlin!" Arthur inches closer, clutching his fingers around Merlin's wrist, feeling for the pulse and—thank God.

Arthur swallows but there's nothing to swallow; there’s only a dry lump in his throat and not enough saliva, as if he's dug his way through the dirt with his teeth. It’s painful to breathe but he’s breathing, each inhalation becoming easier as he sees movement in the pale body at his fingertips.

"Merlin."

Merlin grunts and pulls himself up with one hand, then changes his mind halfway and just rolls on his back, arms splayed wide. He reminds Arthur of their car lying now on the edge of the empty road—belly up, exposed and vulnerable, shape all twisted but not completely broken.

Arthur reaches out, touching Merlin's cheek, letting his hand slip lower to Merlin's neck to feel his heartbeat, to count out the rhythm and assess the damage. Fast, but steady. Good.

He wonders when it happened. At what precise moment did life cease to be enough? When did they come to need _this_ —the speed, the adrenaline, the crash and inevitable pain—to feel _something_ , to feel alive, to wake up their dulled senses from the background of grey porridge, insipid and indifferent?

There's blood on Merlin's mouth where his upper lip has split, and Arthur tries to wipe it with his thumb, smearing it more than cleaning it before he leans down, tracing the gash with his tongue. He pushes his leg in between Merlin's thighs and grinds down, where he knows Merlin will be hard already.

Merlin whimpers, and it might be from pain because his leg isn't quite right, won't ever be, just like Arthur's jaw and arm—too many stitches in the scarred flesh and titanium nails in the broken bones—but Merlin's already pulling Arthur closer, thrusting up, up, up.

The mud underneath their bodies is slippery, making Arthur's hands slide as he gets tangled in the mess of clothes, fingers still a bit too stiff to work properly as he pulls their jeans down, wishing he could just rip the fabric.

Letting his head fall back, exposing his throat, Merlin sighs, surrendering to Arthur. Their cocks are joined together in Arthur's fist, muddy and too tight, but it feels too good for them to care. It's one, two strokes, and again, with Arthur's hips pushing and Merlin thrusting back. But as he breathes into Merlin's mouth, tasting the blood, it's perfect. Nothing else matters. Just this moment, when he feels alive and he has Merlin underneath his body, writhing until he's coming, silent and tense, as he always does.

Only then, with Arthur's hands all wet and slippery with Merlin's seed, does Arthur come too, squeezing his eyes against the wave of pleasure that hits him. He collapses, trying to put at least some of his weight to the side of Merlin instead of on top of him; he’s still unsure if they're both in one piece: no broken limbs, no internal bleeding. There’s the pain in his ribs, and Merlin’s hitching breath, but they’re alive. This time.

He feels Merlin's slender frame shaking in his arms, and wet, warm liquid on his neck where Merlin's face is buried. Merlin sobs just like he comes, quiet and tense. Arthur isn’t sure if it’s relief they’ve made it again, or despair that they’ll chase this feeling once more until there are no more chances. Probably the latter. It makes Arthur's heart feel bruised.

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispers into Merlin's ear, kissing the damp skin there. 

Sirens are blaring in the distance, getting closer. They’ll have to get out of here, but for a moment Arthur can relish this delicate peace. He strokes Merlin's hair and rocks him gently. "Maybe next time, baby. Maybe next time."

* * *

**53**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur, Merlin/OMCs (multi)  
 **Warnings:** Bondage, sensory deprivation (hearing, sight), implied BDSM, come play, possible (temporary) dub-con.

Merlin’s wrists ache from where they rub against the cuffs above his head. He knows Arthur has to be somewhere close by, because he’d never leave him strung up like this. It’s difficult knowing for certain, though, because Merlin is blindfolded and can’t see shit. He’s also agreed to letting Arthur put earplugs in his ears, which makes it difficult to hear. He heard muffled murmurs when Arthur spoke earlier, but he couldn’t quite make out the words.

Now, everything is quiet and dark. He shivers in the cold, damp air of the basement. Suddenly, Merlin thinks he can feel a breath against his neck, and he jerks forward slightly. His heart starts beating faster and the thoughts race through his mind. Was that Arthur? Or was it just a draft and Merlin’s overactive imagination?

He has barely finished that last thought when there’s a caress – definitely a human hand – on his stomach. Merlin draws in a shuddery breath and holds it for a few seconds before exhaling slowly, trying to calm himself.

“Arthur,” he breathes, but he can only hear the name as it echoes in his head, and he’s not quite sure if he can _hear_ the replying chuckle, or if it’s his mind, trying to comfort him.

Then there’s another hand, stroking his half-hard cock into full hardness. Merlin tries to push his hips forward into the tight fist, but struggles for purchase and fails. There is a mumbled word, and suddenly there are multiple hands on him: on Merlin’s back, caressing his neck, his thighs, his chest. 

He tenses and tries to twist away, but then he can feel Arthur’s – it must be his – lips brushing gently against his own. There are small gusts of air against his mouth, words of reassurance that Merlin can’t hear but understands anyway. Eventually, he relaxes.

The other hands are slowly, carefully, working their way over his thin body. He’s not shivering anymore, and he’s hard, and now he doesn’t want anything but _more_. Arthur gives him a long, deep kiss before drawing away. Maybe, just maybe, Merlin lets out a low whine that turns into a moan when someone roughly grabs his hips, making him tremble with anticipation and want.

There’s an eager tongue on his nipple, a hot mouth licking its way up his hard cock, someone grabbing his hair and pulling his head back to reach the long, pale neck... nipping and sucking at it, _marking_ him. Lust pulsing hotly through his veins, Merlin forgets about his aching wrists and tries to twist his body towards the one that gives him the most pleasure right _then_. Someone runs a thick, wet finger against his tight hole, and Merlin tries to push back because he wants–

He wants _that_. Oh, god...

Everything turns into a haze, then, and Merlin loses track of what’s reality and what his mind’s adding to it. There are too many touches, too many thick, amazing fingers in his arse. When they hit the right spot, they force these pathetic sounds out of him, but he can’t stop. It’s like he’s lost all his control, his pleasure is forcing it away because _this_ is how he’s meant to live, _this_ is how he’s meant to be used...

When the first spatter of come hits his lower back he groans and twists, allowing the second, third and fourth load to hit him all over. His stomach and back is wet with it and he can feel it slide messily in between his arse cheeks. Big hands are rubbing it into his skin, playing with it, feeding it to him, and it’s so good, so good... 

The mumble of a dark voice makes the hands withdraw, leaving Merlin filthy and hard. His ragged breaths are like screams inside his head, and when someone takes out the ear plugs, he fights against his bonds for a second before he can feel the comforting warmth of Arthur holding him.

The voice is soft in his ear. “I need you to come for me, love. Can you do that?”

_Yes, yes._

Those familiar, beautiful fingers wrapped around his hard cock make it quick but no less amazing. Soon, Merlin is spent and simply becomes a boneless heap in Arthur’s arms. He’s carefully lowered to the ground as the blindfold is removed.

“You okay?”

Merlin keeps his eyes closed and tucks his nose under Arthur’s cheek, revelling in the closeness. He nods slowly and murmurs, “’M perfect.”

“You really are.”

* * *

**54**

**Pairing(s)** : Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warning(s)** : None 

A lanky black-haired guy elbowed Arthur as he made his way behind. “You sure you’re meant to be here?” he said to Arthur. 

“Ouch, watch it you, that hurt! What’s it to you, anyway?” Arthur said. Another territorial stage hand being rude to him at a band gig, so what was new. 

“It matters when it’s my band, your arsehole,” the guy said. 

“You? You’re…” Arthur sighed. Great, not a stage hand, but an opinionated musician instead. Why did they always have to be so hot and fit when they were so rude? 

“Yeah, Merlin, that’s me.” 

“I’m your, er, the sign-language interpreter for this concert,” Arthur signed as he spoke, by way of illustration. 

“Oh,” Merlin crunched his hair, making it even more rumpled. _God, he was hot_. And he didn’t seem as rude anymore. 

“So you read lips too?” Merlin said, and Arthur realised he’d been caught staring. At Merlin’s very full lips . _Shit._

“Oh, yeah. Yes, that too.” Arthur was not proud of his limited eloquence right now, but the close proximity of this Merlin guy was making him hot and bothered, and the thudding bass sounds were not helping. The warm-up act had begun. 

“Er, I’m not signing,” Merlin said, looking pointedly at Arthur. 

Arthur tore his gaze away from Merlin’s long slender fingers. Caught again! “Just a habit, you know, looking at fingers,” he said weakly. 

“Is that right? Looking at fingers and lips, huh?” Merlin rubbed his fingers over his lips in apparently thoughtfulness, and Arthur was mesmerized all over again. 

“You liking what you see?” Merlin said, breaking Arthur’s reverie. He smirked and sucked in his cheeks till his face was hollowed. 

Arthur flushed. “Stop taking the piss!” he said, turning away.

A strong hand gripped him. “Hey, I was just messing with you,” Merlin said, voice soft next to Arthur’s ear. “Thought you might want to… mess around with me too?” 

Then Merlin licked Arthur’s ear, and the only thought Arthur had was “Ah, what the hell” before he leaned back into Merlin’s hold and pressed his body full along Merlin’s. 

There was always something unknown and torrid and exciting about skulking backstage. Uther’s denouncing of rock music as evil just made it even more attractive to Arthur. Now, wrapped in the arms of a smoking hot musician in the wings of the stage, Arthur was panting and gasping fit to burst. 

“Look at you,” Merlin said, spinning Arthur around and pulling him even closer. “All hot and bothered, and we haven’t even started.” 

Arthur would get _him_ hot and bothered; that would show him. He locked lips with Merlin and it became a heated make-out session, Arthur and Merlin grappling for control as one of them, then the other, got the upper hand. 

Arthur eventually ended up pressed against a flimsy fabric wall. His hand was on some technical equipment for support as Merlin ground their hips together. They were so near the stage, the ground was shaking below them, and the screams of the crowd seemed just behind the wall. 

“Do it,” Arthur grunted, and pulled his dick out so Merlin would take them both in hand and jerk them off. 

Arthur’s head fell back in bliss and he let himself float in the pleasure of the beats and the rhythm of the tugs and pulls, the pressing of sinewy thighs against him (when had their trousers come off?)

Arthur didn’t know if it was Merlin’s yelps or his clever fingers or the deep vibrations enveloping them that tipped him over the edge, but he finally lost his hold on the black boxy thing as he came in a white wash of pleasure. 

“Fuck” Arthur said, still breathing hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Merlin kissed him hard. “That could be arranged,” he said. “But not right now, my set is starting. Look for me later.” 

Er, yeah, right; Arthur still had a job to do, that was what he came for. 

Usually Arthur was a kick-ass sign language interpreter for concerts, but this one night, he was absolutely awful. He kept staring at Merlin and having to adjust his pants to hide his hard-on and totally losing his train of thought. 

He couldn't wait till later. 

FIN

* * *


	4. Group D (warnings)

**55**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Minor blood, injuries

[](http://imgur.com/SxXyqMW)

* * *

**56**

Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur  
Warnings: None  
Completely attuned

[](http://imgur.com/qKWNTRQ)

* * *

**57**

**Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur**  
 **Warnings: None**  
The smell of grass and something more hangs in the air

[](http://imgur.com/1SHa120)

* * *

**58**

Pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin  
Warnings: none

[](http://imgur.com/GqRCxA1)

* * *

**59**

**Pairing:** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** None

Arthur loves Merlin's neckerchief as much as Merlin loves Arthur's gloves.

[](http://imgur.com/jAlknJ8)

* * *

**60**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** Food and Body Issues

[](http://imgur.com/2qh5gNz)

* * *

**61**

**Pairing(s):** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Don't you guys have a kingdom to run or something seriously this is negligent 

Arthur loves Merlin's mouth for so many reasons, but it's the filthy words he utters that leave him senseless. 

[](http://imgur.com/KcyOUY5)

* * *

**62**

**Pairing:** Merlin/Arthur  
 **Warnings:** Creature!Arthur  
 **Summary:** Tasty morsels should be eaten.

[](http://imgur.com/WP6B6oH)

* * *

**63**

**Pairing(s):** Arthur/Merlin  
 **Warnings:** None  
Return from Ealdor

[](http://imgur.com/1Rc1al0)

* * *


	5. Group A (clean)

**1**

Merlin could cope, he thinks, if it weren’t for the sense memory. Smell is the worst. There are times when he walks through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and the smell of woodsmoke and magic and the loamy scent of moss and mud have him doubled over and reliving the long nights when he and Arthur searched for sleep in the middle of a quest. How Arthur would press in tight behind him, the fire at their backs, and rub his cock into the cleft of his arse until he came. How he’d whisper filthy things in Merlin’s ear until Merlin went off as well and they both were able to claim a little rest before carrying on the next morning, not a single knight the wiser.

\--

It was the sounds that were the worst torture for Gwaine. The noises Merlin almost managed to stifle as he and Arthur chased release drove him mad. Mad with lust, with jealousy, with loneliness. More than once, he’d stumbled away from camp, telling Percival he was going to answer nature’s call. He wasn’t lying, strictly speaking. He’d imagine Merlin fucking himself open on Gwaine’s cock in the golden afternoon sun, would imagine the noises Merlin would make as Gwaine sucked him in the armory with dust motes catching the light. He could almost hear his name on Merlin’s lips as he imagined the two of them curled up in front of the roaring fire in his new knight’s chambers. 

At the end of his life, it had been the only secret Morgana hadn’t wrested from his mind and used against him. He wondered why, until he wasn’t able to wonder anything anymore.

\--

Morgana could never escape the sight of Guinevere on her throne. Even in her dreams, she saw it. Purple silk and golden crowns and dragon banners hanging from the rafters. She watched in dreams as Arthur taught Guinevere to rule, and how Guinevere taught Arthur to touch, and each morning Morgana would wake with heat between her legs and ice within her heart and whisper _that was supposed to be mine_. 

\--

Lancelot, too, had thought that Guinevere was supposed to be his. He had strode into the tear in the veil with the vague memory of her on his lips. How sweetly she had kissed him; how salty her tears had been. 

 

When Morgana brought him back, he didn’t think to notice how she tasted when they kissed. If she tasted any differently now that she was to be the Queen. He forgot everything until Merlin brought him back just long enough to summon the memory of her kiss again before he slept.

\--

Arthur had seen death; had dealt it out in justice and in haste. He knew what death sounded like, looked like, smelled like, and tasted like – shocked gasps and winded grunts, the sickening crunch of bone or slice of steel, tangy blood and bitterest ash. 

Nothing had prepared him for how it felt, though. How touch was the very last thing to leave him. How he couldn’t see Merlin, or hear him any longer, but he could feel his gentle hands on his face and burning tears dripping into his eyes. He couldn’t manage touch him in return, though – his limbs no longer obeyed and his mouth would make no more sounds.

Instead, Arthur focused on Merlin’s skin pressed to his, let himself remember how it felt to press Merlin down onto his bed whilst Merlin changed the linens. How Merlin’s cock felt as it pulsed over Arthur’s tongue all those nights they never spoke of. How after each near-defeat Merlin would run his hands over Arthur’s skin just to prove Arthur was still there, still full of life and hope and a future. Merlin’s hands were running over him now, so maybe Arthur was wrong. Maybe everything would be fine. Maybe as long as he could feel Merlin’s flesh warm and safe against his, they’d be alright.

That was the last thing he ever felt.

\--

For as long as Merlin had been alive, and that was a considerable length of time, conventional wisdom had held that there were five senses. Sight, sound, smell, hearing, touch.

Merlin had a sixth sense, though, when it came to Arthur Pendragon. He hadn’t felt it in a millennium, but he knew what it was the moment he felt it charge through his stooped frame. He looked out his window past the shore, toward the tower.

Arthur was coming.

* * *

**2**

There's a hand on Arthur and he doesn't know whose, in the warm silent darkness, but he doesn't care. It curls around the crest of his hipbone, rough with sword-calluses, fingers edging into the hair between his legs, and Arthur spreads his thighs welcomingly. 

It occurs to him vaguely that had he not accepted the Druids' wine, that were this ritual not vital to negotiations, he might not be so accepting. But the lifting of his doubts and warinesses by the magicked wine has also lifted some of the veils from his eyes, and he cannot deny that he has wanted, _craved_ this kind of wantonness since he came into manhood. 

Someone mouths wetly at Arthur's neck. He gasps, never having thought he'd be so tender somewhere so commonplace, and more fingers find his open mouth to fuck between his lips in crude suggestion. Arthur suckles, imagining the tang of steel to be something else, more bodily, something he has never tasted but often hungered for. 

There are five hands on Arthur now, pulling at his knees to spread them, palming at his ribs to turn him, and he goes willingly, wantingly, and the fingers in his mouth hook until he opens, panting. Something bumps his bottom lip, slick and warm and sweat-bitter, leaving a wet track behind, and Arthur licks it off and feels the blood heat between his legs, realising. A gentle hand cups the back of his neck, a thumb pries his mouth wide again, and that taste fills him again as someone carefully, so carefully, feeds him their cock until it bumps the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat. Arthur is forced to breathe through his nose or choke. 

Hazily-lazily, he knows he would not be averse to that. His own cock hangs heavy and blood-full between his legs. It is untouched, not a single brush of skin, but he feels like he could go off with just a breath, a hint, a word -

\- but there are no words down here in the dark. No sound, no sight, just touch, taste, smell. Visceral and pure, the Druids want an offering of carnal power, warrior-seed and royal submission, brotherhood and loyalty and trust, all at once, and Arthur needs their power and support so he is paying their price, he and his most beloved knights. 

One of them is fucking his face now, hard and sure, familiar hands rough in Arthur's hair. And fingers are sliding over Arthur's skin, to the tense muscle of his arse, his virgin, untouched hole - he does not know how many of his knights are there, slick-touched and careful, making him clench-squirm as they ease one fingertip and then another against him, softly in, out, pulling just the tiniest amount and then oh, _oh_ they push, they crook, one knuckle deep and then another, another, until Arthur's joints are locked tight and he's trembling, drooling helplessly around the cock in his mouth that keeps him breathless, pushing back and back onto the fingers - three now, or four, a gut-deep ache punched into him that he never wants to cease. 

There is a place inside him they brush more and more that makes him whimper and his spine arch and sway. 

His mouthful pulses, and Arthur hums and tries to swallow it deeper, only to have it pulled from his swollen lips, his gasping face upturned, then stripes of bitter wetness splash him, he's marked across the cheek, the mouth, can feel heavy droplets on his eyelashes, and he's on fire between his legs, he's full and ready for release, so close, so _close_ but there's no relief for him yet. The fingers filling him so well are pulled free and he would protest but they're replaced with cock, thicker, longer, aimed true and sweet to drive pleasure into his bones like a battering ram, and Arthur can't hear it but he knows he's moaning like a wanton thing - at least until his mouth is filled again. 

When Arthur comes, cock untouched and yet no other part unmarked, his senses roar awake, all five of them, like a sunburst. And when he comes back to himself, sated, exhausted, it's to soft murmurs in his ears, and the sight of his loyal knights caring for him and for each other, and he thinks that if this was meant to be a price, it is not one he's sorry to pay.

* * *

**3**

“I can smell you.”

Arthur heard him before he saw him. He had to take a deep, steadying breath, pausing in the doorway before he slowly turned back around.

“I could smell you the second you stepped in here.”

Merlin was standing beneath the tall archway a ways before him. Arthur had known full well he was risking his life coming here, but he hadn’t been able to make himself do otherwise. The pull had been too strong.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin demanded in a half snarl. When his lips curled back, Arthur caught the gleam of one of Merlin’s terrifying too-long incisors, along with the brief yet plenty wanton caress of his tongue against the point.

Arthur had to clear his throat, searching for a moment before he found his voice through the way his entire body had started thrumming in Merlin’s presence.

“I could ask you that. You did something to me the other night.” Arthur closed his eyes against a shudder of terror, disgust that only veiled the intoxicating lure that came with only the mention. 

Merlin’s blue gaze heating him from across the dance floor of the club, the sting of dagger-pointed teeth against his neck… 

“All you told me was your name, not even out loud what you are… Now I keep waking up remembering the-..the feel of your teeth… Somehow knowing this coven house is where I’d find you.” 

Arthur impulsively raised his fingertips to the tiny twin wounds along his neck, feeling the way they burned and ached, with Merlin so close. Arthur’s voice broke to a lower tone. “I could only fight it for so long.”

Merlin’s eyes were shining now, eagerly flicking along Arthur from head to toe. 

“And what do you expect me to do about it?” He stepped forward, striding slowly towards Arthur. “Sorry, but it’s not that simple to stop.”

“Who said I wanted it to stop?” Arthur whispered, betraying himself with the words and yet never meaning something so desperately in his life. Before his hands started trembling too much, he tugged open the top buttons of his shirt. “I expect you to do it again.”

Merlin’s eyes dilated, drawn instantly to the signature of his own fangs in Arthur’s neck, how the twin punctures had grown red and swollen, almost leaking as Arthur’s heady blood rushed to the surface in response to Merlin’s presence. The pained whimper on Arthur’s face gave Merlin a flash of guilty remorse, but then there was nothing but blinding want as the blood in Arthur’s veins called to him.

Moving faster than Arthur’s eyes could follow, Merlin was suddenly pressing him back against the wall beside the doorway, everything touching from head to toe. Arthur gasped, feeling as if his entire body ignited with the contact. The puncture wounds in his neck throbbed.

With another lick to his fangs – now dripping with arousal, Merlin bent his head to press his mouth against the delicate holes in Arthur’s neck, just above his collarbone. Arthur cried out, his vision momentarily whiting out and his entire body bucking forward against Merlin. Merlin steadied him with two quick, firm hands against his waist, then tugged him forward tighter against himself and onto the thigh Merlin pushed between his legs. Merlin was hard instantly, with the whimpering noises Arthur made as he rutted helplessly back and forth against Merlin’s thigh as Merlin lapped his tongue across the puncture wounds.

“I made your blood sing for me,” Merlin whispered in a rough voice. One hand was tugging Arthur’s pants open and reaching for his cock where a wet stain had begun to appear. 

“You took in part of me just as I took in part of you.” 

Another lick to the twin punctures, another delicious shudder from Arthur, and Merlin’s fangs dropped all the way. 

“Your blood is the sweetest, the richest I’ve ever tasted. Now it’s mine. You’re mine. No one else will make you feel like this.”

His fangs slid neatly into the holes along Arthur’s neck and when he bit down, drawing blood, Arthur screamed. His hands grabbed Merlin wherever they could, grinding against him mindlessly as Merlin’s hand pumped the wetness already spilling from his cock. 

Merlin’s fangs were white-hot daggers in his skin, and Arthur could feel his blood sparking in his veins, all rushing at once to the place where Merlin drank from him. The most intense orgasm of his life suddenly gripped him, shaking from head to toe.

Merlin moaned loudly against Arthur’s skin. He pumped the last bit of release from Arthur’s cock while he drank in the intoxicating, addicting taste of Arthur’s orgasm. 

He knew nothing else would ever satisfy him like this.

* * *

**4**

Freya's always been somewhat of a simple girl. Perhaps it's because, growing up, she'd never had the opportunity for much indulging. It had just been her and her father, living in a small house, barely scraping by from paycheck to paycheck, and then just her in a tiny apartment just off campus. With two minimum wage jobs and a full schedule of classes, there'd been neither the money or time for anything extravagant.

Vivian, on the other hand, is nothing but extravagant indulgences.

Freya's still not entirely sure how they got from there -- meeting in a coffee shop, Vivian smiling at her all coy and prettily and saying, "Just give me fifteen minutes in front of a mirror with some of my makeup and you'll have people _begging_ ," -- to here -- shyly giving her girlfriend a twirl to show off the lacy purple baby doll Vivian gave her. Vivian's eyes are dark and hungry and so affectionate, and Freya's never felt more beautiful. She traces the shape of the fabric with one finger. The room feels too hot, her skin too tight, and her matching thong is already almost soaked through, but goosebumps still rise on her skin when Vivian's hands go to her waist.

"You look like a princess," Vivian says, somehow managing to sound delighted and predatory all at once. "Well. Maybe not the Disney type of princess," she amends, two slender fingers going up to rub Freya's nipples through the lace. Freya smothers a moan, already feeling too worked up by just a bit of flimsy fabric.

"Bed?" she says, stuttering the words out as her girlfriend's other hand slowly slides down her back.

"Hmm." Freya can practically see the gears turning. "I'm tempted just to have you right here," Vivian says, her tone far too innocent considering how her fingers are playing with the small piece of fabric between Freya's legs. "But that might be for the best. I have plans for you."

Freya can't decide whether to be excited or wary about that. Not that it matters -- Vivian's pretty used to getting her way, and it's not as though Freya's ever complained. She lets Vivian push her until she falls back against the plush bedding of Vivian's four-poster bed.

Vivian crawls on top of her, grinning like the cat that got the canary. "God, I love playing dress-up with you. The way you look in all these pretty things." She shimmies down Freya's body, leaving the other girl gasping at the sensation of bare skin on skin-and-lace. "I love the faces you make when I eat you out." And with that, she wastes no time in bending down, spreading Freya's legs, and doing exactly that.

Her tongue slides up the small bit of lace against Freya's cunt, hot and rough and wickedly talented. Freya feels her nudge the sodden strip of fabric just out of the way and dive in, lapping and sucking and making the most obscene contented moans, like she's dining on one of her gourmet meals. One hand joins her tongue in its determined quest to take Freya apart, and the other she splays across Freya's stomach. It's surprisingly strong for how petite Vivian seems, and Freya does her best not to buck up into the other woman's mouth. She pants, digging her fists into the ridiculously expensive sheets, her entire body focused on Vivian's tongue and how every heaved breath rubs the lace against her sensitive nipples.

Vivian's had plenty of opportunity to get unfairly good at this, and it's not long before Freya comes, keening and panting and shaking all over. Vivian keeps going, using her tongue and fingers and fucking her through her orgasm. Freya has to push her away, too oversensitive, and Vivian looks up with a devilish smirk. Her mouth and chin are drenched and her lips are as pink as her favoured shade of lipstick she keeps in her vanity. 

"Happy birthday," she says, looking much too pleased with herself. "Told you I'd have fun spoiling you."

Freya, still lightheaded and tingling and grinning, just laughs and laughs and pulls her in for a long, messy kiss. "Was that your 'plan,' then?" 

Vivian's laugh is high and fond. "Oh, Freya," she says, and climbs atop Freya, grinding her hips in a small, lazy circle. "I'm just getting started."

* * *

**5**

Merlin sways. He probably doesn't even know he's doing it. Waltz's have always been Merlin's favourite. His face is a picture of concentration, unaware of any of anything beyond his own fine boned fingers, nimble as they are on the fingerboard. His eyes are filled with an otherworldly ecstasy that sets Arthur's blood buzzing in dissonance with the soft lilting sway of the violin.  
Arthur could write an essay on Merlin's face, from the things he did understand like the passion and the tenderness, to the emotions he didn't know if it was possible to understand.  
As the piece ends Merlin sits perfectly still, eyes closed, bow hovering over the last note. The moment seems to almost last forever, and Arthur just wants to snatch his boyfriend off stage and snog him.

The Applause rolls out, and Merlin bows modestly, grins, bows again, and backs his way off stage, a larger group shuffling in to replace him. Arthur grabs his hand and leads Merlin off.  
“Arthur,” Merlin protests, “Arthur, I want to listen, we can't leave now, Morgana's in the...”  
Arthur pushes him into a small alcove, hidden from view by heavy curtains, and shuts him up with a long, deep kiss, his tongue demanding entry.

“You were brilliant out there, you're so amazing.” Arthur pants when Merlin pulls away for air.  
Behind them, the orchestral music starts; long low, sombre notes that sound like dread and excitement. This is the sort of piece that sends adrenaline thrumming through his veins, the sort that's almost certainly called something impressive like “symphony of the new world”, or something German. The drums come crashing in, and their lips are crashing back together again.

Merlin pulls Arthur as close as possible and they both gasp at the pressure, the slight friction the movement creates. The skipping flutes float above the rest, cheerful and light as air. Merlin slips his hand under Arthur's shirt, and brushes his nipples, teasing them into peaks. Arthur lets Merlin pull his shirt off, and retaliates by tugging both Merlin's shirt and his trousers off.  
Arthur's hand runs down the swell of Merlin's arse to the swell of the strings, and Merlin's breath quivers alongside the drawn out note. His finger presses into the crease, briefly, then retreats, and Merlin's normally clever fingers, so used to moving through muscle memory alone, have stilled on Arthur's chest at the touch.

They rut together but that quickly isn't enough. Merlin's trembling, vibrating. He brings Arthur's hand up to his mouth and sucks in to fingers, then guides that hand down to his hole.

One finger slips in, then two. Merlin hisses, then moans then pushes back against the pressure, as Arthur adds a third finger and pumps all three in and out, watching Merlin, listening to Merlin, playing Merlin.

“Arthur... Arthur, please, fuck me.” Merlin pants finally, giving a high-pitched whine when Arthur's fingers disappear.

Arthur sinks in slowly, settling deep and low, and pauses a quiet moment.

As the oboes and trumpets pick up a tentative throb, Arthur moves experimentally, making Merlin double over and clench around him at the unexpected buzz.

With blood and drums pounding in their ears, they find a harmonious rhythm, building to a crescendo that leaves them blind.

Soon, they both have to clean up what they can and dress as they hear people starting to filter out of the theatre.

He may not play an instrument himself, but let it not be said that Arthur Pendragon did not appreciate music.

* * *

**6**

Gwen blinked, her eyelashes catching on the silk blindfold. She'd tied it herself though she wasn't sure just who had tied her hands, one to each bedpost. Arthur had promised her a surprise for her birthday, the first one she'd spend with Arthur, unmarried though they were. Late at night, with a warm breeze coming through the curtains around the bed, she’d shared some of her deepest desires with him and this evening, at least one of them would come to fruition, he'd promised.

Gwen jumped when fingertips brushed against her side, then shivered in anticipation when she recognised Arthur's touch. She breathed in, her mind reeling through all the possibilities. She tried to listen for a hint but all she could hear were the deafening sounds of her breathing and the thundering of her heart. She tried to twist towards him but he'd moved, he was on her other side now, fingers brushing over her arm. She turned the other way, the ropes chafing her wrists.

Arthur's fingers moved down her arm, the sensation tickling her underarm until she couldn't help but laugh. "Arthur, you're supposed to be taking this seriously."

"I am," Arthur promised, his voice coming from the wrong side of her.

"Arthur?" Gwen asked, realising now that there were three hands on her skin, a mathematical impossibility for one man alone.

"I'm here," he assured her, his hand coming to rest on her knee, gradually stroking up her thigh.

"So am I," another voice whispered in her ear. "If you want me to be."

She moved to face her guest, even though she couldn't see him. A name was on the tip of her tongue and secret words spoken in hushed tones as they ran for their lives lingered in the back of her mind. "Lancelot?"

"My lady," Lancelot said reverently.

"Guinevere," Arthur whispered from her other side.

She was torn between them, turning from one to the next as Lancelot's fingers followed the curve of her breast while Arthur's hand gripped the inside of her thigh. Two men at once, Gwen remembered mentioning, thinking longingly about the man who had made her difficult choice for her. If only she could freely love them both, even if for a moment.

"Shhh, my love," they both seemed to say at once and she relaxed back into the softness of the bed.

She lost track of who pressed kisses to her neck and who pulled back her hair, who ran their nails over her skin and who sucked bruises into her flesh. She desperately wanted them both and without being able to see them or reach out and touch them, she had to abandon herself into the haze of confusion and the bliss of ignorance.

"Please, one of you..." Gwen pleaded, the almost touches driving her mad. She worried for a moment, wondering if she should try to make a definition between the two of them but all she could do was arch up into them both.

She felt lips latch onto her nipple, teeth gently nipping at it, tongue running circles around it. Gwen rolled her hips and was met with two firm hands holding them down and a warm breath over her cunt. The warm breath became a hot press and she was caught between two mouths, each nuzzling at her with gentle kisses and the rough scratch of stubble.

She longed to be free, to thread her fingers in Arthur's golden hair or Lancelot's dark locks. It would be perfect to tug on, if only she could reach, if only she could see. She wanted to ask who was licking along her cunt and who was pinching her nipple between his teeth but the words were swallowed up by pleasure. All she had were the pictures in her head and the sounds on the air, the feel of skin against skin. She didn't call out any single name as she came, everything, even her lovers becoming a blur.

When they removed her blindfold, she drank them in with her eyes. Each one was naked and flushed, hard cocks begging for her touch. She kissed Arthur first, whispering her gratitude against his lips. When she kissed Lancelot, she tasted herself on his lips, betraying his part in their tryst.

"You will have me first," she decided, licking the last trace of herself from his lips. "And then perhaps you both will have me together."

She looked at Arthur, already planning what to do for his birthday.

* * *

**7**

Six weeks back and Arthur feels he's coping admirably. He's got his wits and two good hands, Merlin to guide him, and the computer for everything that Merlin can't, or won’t, explain. He's confident that he can learn, adapt, find new ways to be useful to Albion's people. And yet…

Everywhere he goes, he feels disoriented, like something's missing.

Around Merlin he puts on a brave face, but at night he breaks out in cold sweats, tossing and turning beneath the duvet. He clutches at his pillows to anchor himself, but they're no comfort. Always cool, always fresh, reeking of…well, _nothing_. He invariably punches them or flings them away, aching with a loneliness he doesn't remember from before. 

This world, it smells all _wrong._

~ > ~

He takes to hunting down familiar odours, a whiff of manure here, a hint of woodsmoke there, shouting a gleeful, "Well then keep up, Merlin!" as his nose carries him around another corner.

In London there are forges and stables still, spice shops that yield grains of paradise, fusty bus shelters and public toilets that approximate what it was to be holed up, hunkered down with a dozen brave men.

He narrowly escapes arrest after one trip to the latter. Merlin, arriving just in time, makes the burly constable recall an urgent appointment elsewhere, then hustles Arthur away, explaining. 

"That's _not_ what I was after!"

"I know," Merlin says. There's a flush on his cheeks, a grim set to his jaw. Arthur doesn't know how to tell him that he's not offended by grown men taking pleasure in one another – quite the contrary, if his reaction to those videos he's found on the computer are anything to go by – but by the constable's coarse manner.

~ > ~

Arthur only watches the videos when Merlin's away. They titillate, but ultimately leave him frustrated, just like his pillows. Just like Merlin, who has obviously succumbed to this era's ruthless soaps and odd perfumes.

Arthur catches himself sometimes, eyes half-closed and leaning in. It's only after Merlin's been for one of his long, demon-dispelling runs that he smells anything like the friend who'd held him, eased him into the grey slumber of Avalon.

~ > ~

One night, desperate, Arthur snatches a rank pair of Merlin's socks and a shirt from the hamper and stuffs them in his pillowcases, just to have _something_. He sleeps better than he has since stumbling off that muddy tor, wakes to a warm tickle of sunshine on his face and his cock thickening between his thighs.

~ > ~

The next time Merlin's out on a job, Arthur stops by the hamper before heading to the study. It's not until he's settled in, video playing, that he realises there's something else tangled inside the shorts. It's one of those strappy pouches Merlin runs in – ripe with musky sweat, thick enough to coat the back of his throat.

He forgets all about the video, closing his eyes and mashing the thing over his nose and mouth, sucking the scent deep into his lungs. He takes his time, using slow, firm strokes until he's lightheaded, gasping, his orgasm bucking against the reins. It's better than any he remembers.

~ > ~

Arthur thinks back on their before, ponders all of Merlin's lifetimes since. He digs out the boxes of framed photos, the ones that'd disappeared the day after his return. Stunned, he waits for Merlin in the lounge, pacing, bellows for him the instant he hears the key in the lock.

"Arthur? What on earth's the – "

" _I'm_ meant to be with you," Arthur blurts. "I want to be. If you'll have me?"

Merlin's expression goes from slap-shocked to puzzled, wary. "Er, you know you're welcome to stay as long as – "

"No." Arthur makes Merlin look at the photos, prods each adoring face. " _With you_ with you, like he was, and her, and him, and them – _all_ of them." He waves an arm at the rest. "And now me. Full stop."

"Oh," Merlin says. 

Arthur experiences a moment of blind panic before being gifted with that perfect, unfettered smile.

~ > ~

Merlin's mouth often tastes disappointingly minty-fresh, but Arthur perseveres, wrestling him onto the nearest surface, kissing until the flavour's worn away. He lives for post-run sex, camping trips, protracted power cuts.

"You should wash less," he often grumbles into a pine-scented armpit or between soap-scoured thighs, urging Merlin to flip over, push his little bottom up. "You hardly smell like yourself, except just – _mmph._ "

Yes. Right there. Arthur laps at it, inhaling deeply, holding the scent of his world on his tongue.

* * *

**8**

It should be simple enough, Mordred gone for the summer before he finally flies off, leaves Arthur alone in the house Arthur raised him in while he goes off to uni, to start his own life.

Of course that's before Arthur begins to drown in the knowing, determined blue eyes of the best friend Mordred also left behind to help Arthur out around the yard for extra pocket money.

He's seventeen and beautiful and Arthur's gut wrenches every time he comes back into the house, bare-chested and streaked with dirt, with a silly, happy, _fond_ smile he reserves just for Arthur.

*

"Have you even had sex since Mordred was born?" Merlin quirks an eyebrow at him from where he's buried his hands in the fresh, damp soil, his skin shining with trickles of sweat that Arthur can't seem to stop himself from watching avidly as they course down the wiry muscle of his lithe, pale frame.

 _Beautiful_. And _seventeen_ , goddammit.

Arthur splutters out an incoherent protest and Merlin stands up, smearing more dirt across his chest and smirking.

"Well, it's good to know that you must be clean then. Don't even have to worry about condoms. You never know what you might pick up these days," Merlin says while waving an admonishing (and patronising, the brat) finger in his face, like he is the responsible adult in this situation.

*

The sun streaks through the water in vibrant, shimmering shards of light and Arthur laughs at the buoyancy of it, the water sliding coolly along his skin, while he watches Merlin's body cut through the pool like an agile fish.

He's unsure how they ended up here, roughhousing in the water, and he's drunk on it all, the way Merlin flows around him, pushing, prodding, eyes huge and even bluer in the sunlit water, full of laughter and a seemingly bottomless well of happiness.

There's always been a joyfulness to him, some unfathomable quality that makes Arthur want to reach out and grasp and never let go.

Merlin dunks him again and Arthur gasps and shoves himself forward until he catches him around the middle, Merlin's skin slick and smooth under his hands with a dusting of hair on his belly that Arthur belatedly realises he's palming just above the line of his shorts, so close, dizzying him as his lungs ache with the need to breathe, but caught in the bubble of this tremulous moment he doesn't want to break.

Then time rushes again abruptly and he hauls himself to the edge of the pool, intent on getting out and putting as much space between them as possible. But Merlin has other ideas and catches him at the wall, pinning him to the sides with a strong grip on Arthur's wrists, using his body to box him in, flush along Arthur's back.

"No, you don't get to run away this time, I won't let you," he groans into Arthur's ear, hot and moist and skittering through Arthur's veins.

"Merlin..." Arthur protests, voice weak and cracking even to his own ears, and scrabbles at the side of the pool for any sort of leverage, but Merlin doesn't let up in the slightest, pushing closer, and Arthur can _feel_ the shape of his cock through his shorts grinding into Arthur's arse, the sharp tang of chlorine and earthy _boy_ going to his head until his vision darkens around the edges.

"No," Merlin says again sharply and squeezes Arthur's wrists until they'll leave bruises and Arthur goes lax, compliant in his grip.

With a ragged whine Merlin lets go and plasters himself to Arthur, hands suddenly everywhere, yanking his hair until Arthur's head is pulled back for a frantic, toe-curling kiss, his mouth soft with the taste of the pool and something sweet upon his tongue. And then he's yanking Arthur's trunks down, one hand grabbing Arthur's cock with long, sure fingers, the other slipping down Arthur's back in between his arse cheeks and pushing in with the water-chilled tip of his thumb, Merlin's own cock throbbing just to the side where he's humping the thick swell of Arthur's arse with needy, little growls in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, yeah, you fucking love that, don't you. You'd love it if I fucked you raw right here against the pool tiles..."

Arthur whimpers and gives into it, into everything, into the happiness promised by Merlin's lips; Merlin deserves everything Arthur has to give and more.

* * *

**9**

Magic fades.

It's slow at first and no one notices. Merlin's so used to using modern technology that he doesn't even notice the distillation of his power. 

It's not until he starts to fade that he pays attention. Everyone pays attention, then. And it's too late. 

His sight and his hearing start to go at the same time, but his hearing disintegrates faster. It's both boon and curse: he can still see Arthur, even if he can barely hear the worry-laden mockery in Arthur's voice. 

Merlin takes to laying against Arthur, head on his chest. It lets him feel Arthur's heartbeat and bask in his warmth, which makes the magic fading okay. Merlin's dying, but Arthur is still strong and beautiful. His hair seems even more golden, glowing like the sun when Merlin stares at him, and his eyes rival Merlin's memory of the sky.

Arthur traces the words he can't say on Merlin's skin with his lips. His hands glide over Merlin's slim chest, bringing with them all the love and devotion Arthur can't express. His fingers whisper praise as he opens Merlin up, and his cock, when it finally slides home, sings promises never to be forgotten. 

They both cry, although Arthur tries to hide it by burying his face in Merlin's hair, distracting Merlin by mouthing at his ears. It's effective, but Merlin knows the truth. Arthur knows Merlin knows.

-

His eyes go eventually, and Arthur has a hard time letting Merlin out of his sight to use the loo, let alone go outside. It causes fewer problems than Merlin expects, because his motor skills start deteriorating next.

"It's going to disappear," Merlin says. He can talk if he tries, but their best means of communication is touch, words written on the skin. "All of it." He's not sure if he's referring to himself or to magic, but at this point, there's not much of a difference.

"Not yet," Arthur says, in response. He holds Merlin a little tighter, as though Arthur can force the life back into Merlin - into magic.

That conversation triggers something in Arthur. He brings home holly and ivy and lights candles that Merlin can smell from where he relaxes on the sofa. Merlin suspects he'd see much more - crystals, flowers, figures, anything that claims to be magic. It's almost like he's a one-man army, bent on forcing magic back to life. It makes Merlin smile, remembering the times when Arthur had fought so hard against magic.

-

Arthur's incredibly gentle with Merlin, hesitant to even kiss him. Merlin's the insistent one, pressing Arthur down to the bed and straddling him. He knows his body, and Arthur's, well enough that he doesn't hesitate, sinking down so Arthur fills him up. It's the only time he feels alive. The magic between them is still there.

-

It doesn't take long after that, before magic completely leaves. Merlin can feel it, when the last traces of his magic slip away from him. It leaves a pleasant memory of warmth, light, and love, beautiful and aching at the same time like the memories of a first, old love.

Merlin cries. His tears are silent, but beside him, Arthur stirs, going from asleep to awake in a moment. He doesn't vocalize anything, doesn't try to ask a question, just gathers Merlin in his arms. Every sweep of his hands, every fervent kiss he presses to Merlin's face says, "I love you," in all the ways Merlin can't hear. 

He can feel every teardrop spilling from Arthur's eyes. They're rain, cleansing and refreshing, and he draws his last breath surrounded by the man he lived for.

-

Freya greets him on the other side. It takes Merlin a moment to focus, so unused to using his eyes. But they work, as does his hearing, and he finds he can walk across the verdant grass to Freya's side. Nimueh and Morgause and Morgana linger nearby, and the Disir, who bow as he walks past.

"Welcome home," Freya says, as she wraps slim arms around Merlin in a hug. It is warm and welcoming, as is the air, alive with magic and thick with happiness. But he still feels hollow, half his soul left behind. "Never fear, Merlin. Your king will soon join us."

* * *

**10**

After the accident, his mother’d sat him at the piano, guiding small hands to the keys, smooth and cool beneath his touch. 

Merlin knew his scars were ugly; he’d heard classmates at Julliard whispering and he never left off his glasses. The scars felt hard, ridged like a mountain range; the only beauty he had to offer was his music, but as he aged, the less the companionship of his piano eased his loneliness.

*

Hammering woke Merlin, groggy and annoyed. Heading onto his patio, sun warm, he followed the din. 

“Bit early, mate.”

The hammering stopped. “Wake you?” 

Merlin frowned at the laugh.

“Hungover?” 

“What?”

“Sunglasses?” The gate squeaked, the stranger stepping to Merlin who retreated, Kil’s comforting body against his legs.

_‘Oh.’_

“Blind.” Merlin stated it like the inescapable fact it was, virtually hearing the guy crumple.

“Shit! Sorry! I’m Arthur Pendragon: neighbour and, uh, prat.”

“Merlin and that’s Kilgarrah, my eyes.” Merlin held out his hand, Arthur’s shake firm.

“As in Merlin Emrys? Magic-Man?” 

“Umm, yes?”

 _“’Druids Lament’_ ’s incredible,” Arthur enthused. “The passion and longing, like missing a piece.”

“Oh, thanks.”

**

Arthur’s renovating all summer, friends from his rugby team helping out, who adopt Merlin as their own, with much blushing from the pianist. Merlin brought them occasional sandwiches during practices which, after initial hesitation, Arthur gave feedback on. They were an odd pair- Arthur outgoing, Merlin happiest behind his piano but it worked.

In turn, Merlin took him to Camelot Hall, worlds away from rowdy stadiums.

“Wanna play?”

Merlin heard Arthur’s fingers skitter to a halt where Arthur’d been stroking the Model D’s curve.

“What if I damag-”

“You can’t hurt her.” Merlin coaxed until Arthur caved, Merlin feeling his excitement through his trembling frame.

Arthur’s playing was disjointed but clearly _‘Camlann_ ’, Merlin’s greatest hit. It’s beautiful beneath Arthur’s hands, heat pooling in Merlin’s gut as he pressed closer to Arthur, relief rushing hot as Arthur hummed.

“How’s it end?” Arthur asked.

Nobody’d ever noticed it was unfinished before.

“Don’t know yet,” Merlin startled when Arthur took his hand, thumb rubbing Merlin’s palm, hold tight.

Eyes screwed shut against rejection, Merlin cupped Arthur’s cheek, stubble rough, skin warm.

“Can I-” 

Arthur’s mouth’s tender on his.

*

Merlin smeared cream over Arthur’s face, getting pie-filling in his hair for his trouble, war erupting as they fell,  
wrestling on the tiles.

All mirth drained from Merlin when his glasses were knocked off, scrabbling for them frantically, face averted.

“You don’t need them,” Arthur said. “Not with me.”

“I know I’m ugly.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

Merlin shoved the glasses on so hard it hurt.

“ _Don’t lie.”_

“Listen to my voice - I’m not lying.” 

“Your cheekbones could cut glass, your smile’s incredible, when you don’t shave…fuck-”

Arthur’s lips were tart-sweet as Merlin rolled them, Arthur’s hand cupping the swell of Merlin’s cock.

“That what you like?” Arthur asked, tonguing Merlin’s ear.

“I - I dunno…” Merlin groaned, thrusting artlessly, face aflame.

“You’ve never?” To Merlin’s intense relief, Arthur didn’t withdraw.

“Wanna?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

Arthur couldn’t get Merlin’s pants down fast enough, mouth smudging _lust-truth-want_ on Merlin’s skin, working his tongue around Merlin’s cock, flicking the slit, hints of teeth as he sucked, riding Merlin’s bucking hips, as nimble hands ran restlessly over his back.

“I’m – Arthu-”

It's way too soon, Merlin mortified at coming so fast, but Arthur seemed pleased, swarming up his body, cock to softening cock, licking into his mouth with intent, sharing Merlin’s taste.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Arthur gasped, Merlin’s hands grasping sweat-slick skin to tug him closer, Arthur’s cock riding along Merlin’s hipbone, thrusting fast and furious.

Merlin’s dizzy on the scent of Arthur and the salt-tang of sex, hot skin against his, his own taste on his lips, Arthur gasping in his ear; he _needs_ to hear Arthur come.

“Merlin.”

Merlin grinned victoriously as Arthur spilt between them.

“Fuck-” 

Their kisses sloppy, Merlin carelessly tosses his glasses aside, intrinsically altered; no longer the scarred boy, or the man hiding behind a piano. With Arthur, like this, he’s just _Merlin_. 

*

“I’ve something for you,” Merlin whispered one morning.

“Gotta ge’up?”

“Lazy daisy.” Merlin dragged a protesting Arthur to the piano, positioning them on the bench.

The familiar strains of ‘Camlaan’ floated into the air, Arthur’s lost in visions of castles and friendship, war and love, heartbreak as the end neared-

But Merlin played on, the song transformed, joy filling every dancing note. For all the mystery surrounding Merlin, here, with music, it was as though every emotion, raw and beautiful, were writ miles high.

“I love you too, Merlin.”

* * *

**11**

“See you at the pier?” she had asked the day before, opening the invitation like a letter unsealed.

Now he reads the bumps on her arms, the fine hairs standing on end as a cool breeze blows over them while they lean over the edge. The wood is rough beneath his touch and he refrains from dragging his fingers across, sure that he’d catch a splinter in a second. The air briny and he can taste the ocean on his tongue, the languid splash of waves against the rocks below. 

“It’s so nice to see you again, my lovely,” she says beside him and his heart beats more soundly when she brushes his curly fringe from his forehead, the action taking him by surprise in its suddenness and intimacy.

His swallow is loud in his ears and he pulls his hands away when his finger pokes the point of a splinter.

“You too,” he replies and he is thankful, for once, that he remembered what she looked like so many years ago.

________

Her skin dots with little bumps as his hand trails over her breast, a finger swirling once delicately over the nipple. He rests his head on her shoulder and just breathes; the fresh smell of soap on her skin, the hum of the air conditioner across the room. The world beyond the tiny apartment no longer exists and he tunes out the hurried sounds of taxis and chatter, counting the seconds between her inhales and exhales.

Her fingers scratch idly on his scalp and he snuggles closer, hooking a leg over her own and settling it between. Her free hand begins to move timidly over his side. Her eyelashes tickle the tips of his finger and her eyelids are smooth below her brows. He focuses on the way her hand moves across his skin, skittering along his back, curving along a cheek of his bum and sliding down the back of his thigh. The filed edge of her nail is ticklish behind his knee.

He maps her skin beneath his hand, centered on the easy drag over curves and edges, hair and bones. He thinks that beauty has no other form than this, the quiet trace of a lover’s body, the gentle feel of their skin against one’s own.

________

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” she replies easily, a shuffling as she arranges the flowers in her grasp.

The little bumps on her sleeve are faintly amusing and he runs his fingers back and forth over the patterned fabric, entertained as he listens to her doings. She wasn’t supposed to be seen by him but he supposes it doesn’t really matter anyway. He hears the cap of her lipstick and the _pop_ of her lips as she applies it. He listens as she exhales a breath, fabric rustling beneath her touch as she smoothed the front of her dress. He hears her careful swallow, the silent affirmation of readiness.

“You look beautiful,” he says as he smiles and he knows it without a doubt.

“So do you,” she replies and he thinks she is returning his smile.

He walks forward and she takes his hands, guiding the behind her head. She releases them and he takes the edges of her veil and lefts it carefully over her head, the tulle’s edge ticklish beneath his fingers. Music has begun in the room beyond and the butterflies in his stomach are in a frenzy.

“Are you nervous?” she asks as the door creaks open.

He can smell her father’s cologne, the tiniest scrape of his shoes on the ground.

“No,” he replies with a grin before turning to leave. “We finally have the chance we never could.” 

“I guess so,” she responds as he hears her fix her flowers once more. “See you at the altar?”

He catches the kiss he hears her blow and playfully tucks it in his pocket, waiting to cash it after their vows.

“See you.”

* * *

**12**

Arthur yawned loudly. "I better get to bed."

"Awesome!" Merlin almost broke the sound barrier with his volume. 

He cringed at the equally loud eyebrow raise Arthur shot him.

Merlin cleared his throat. "I just...I know how knackered you've been lately. You need your rest."

Arthur stilled looked at him as if he smelled something foul. He backed away slowly. "I swear Merlin if you get any stranger, I'm going to have to reconsider letting you live here."

"Uh, I'm the one who found this flat." He pointed up his finger as he tried to speak facts to someone who acted as if the world revolved around him and anyone who didn't believe that was in complete denial. 

Merlin continued. "In fact you were the one-"

"Uh huh, nice story." Arthur interrupted as he unceremoniously closed his bedroom door on Merlin.

Merlin barely had time to roll his eyes as he ran around the kitchen throwing away Arthur's takeaway containers and plates, since the man refused to clean up after himself.

After getting done in record time, Merlin raced to his room and closed his door quietly. He knew he hadn't missed anything important but still wanted a chance to get comfortable.

Ever since breaking up with Gwen, Arthur had been going through the same routine every night. He would get home, grumble about the morons at work, and then he Merlin would banter about what to watch as they had takeaway. By the time that was over, Arthur claimed to be too tired and headed off to sleep.

Though sleep was certainly not what was on Arthur's mind right away. 

After slowly pulling off his gray suit jacket and toeing off his fancy shoes, Arthur would get in bed and slowly jerk himself off.

Merlin knew this because he had a routine of his own. It started off accidentally. About a week back, he had gone to Arthur's room to complain about the bowl of ice cream he'd accidentally sat in thanks to Arthur. He was full of righteous fury and was all set to knock when the loud sound of Arthur moaning caused him to freeze.

He'd never heard a sound so arousing in his life. He'd never heard Arthur so wanton and unguarded. It made all of Merlin's feelings for Arthur come rushing forward so powerfully he had to rush to his room before he came all over Arthur's door.

Ever since Merlin had kept track of Arthur's routine and when Arthur masturbated, Merlin followed suit. 

Merlin felt like a sketchy pervert. A feeling made even worse by Merlin's misuse of his magic. Since his room was so far away from Arthur's, he had to use his magic to amplify his hearing. And, God, did it work.

Merlin could hear the tiniest sound in great detail. Every moan, every sigh, every flick of Arthur's wrist played on stereo in Merlin's head. The sound was so detailed Merlin could swear he could hear the flapping of a mosquitoes wings.

When Merlin could hear Arthur lay down on his soft bed, Merlin shucked off his pants. As wrong his Merlin knew this was, when he heard the tell-tale drag of Arthur's zipper, his heart leapt into his throat, and he couldn't keep the smile off his face. 

As he thrust his hand down his pants, he knew he would probably be going to hell, but damned if he could care less when he heard Arthur's full-throated moan again.

Merlin was just using his own spit as lube, but he could hear the wet slickness of Arthur’s cherry flavored lube (Merlin knew this because Arthur insisted on writing the lube down on the grocery list every time it was Merlin’s turn to go shopping.)

Merlin could practically taste the cherry flavor on his lips as he groaned and clutched his weeping cock. Arthur suddenly sped up a lot faster. The _thwapthwapthwap_ sound was like music to Merlin’s ears. God, he was so close.

Arthur moaned again. “Merlin.”

Merlin suddenly stopped. His name roared in his ears again as Arthur said it once more. This was definitely new and before Merlin knew it he was coming all over his stomach. His lip was bleeding as he bit into it so hard to keep from screaming out his orgasm. Arthur’s orgasm followed shortly.

Merlin was in so deep and after what he just heard, he had no hope of finding his way out anytime soon.

* * *

**13**

_sight_

Arthur’s skin was glistening, a pinkpale stretch over his solid frame, as he supported himself with a palm to the wall, the other hand in his hair to wash it. The suds of the shampoo clung to the back of his neck, but Merlin wasn’t watching that. He was watching the muscles in Arthur’s biceps and back flexing, and most of all, how his broad upper body melted into a slim waist, narrow hips. 

“Fuck me,” Merlin said, hoarse, wiping his palms on his trousers. They were clammy. “Christ.”

Arthur finished up, turned the shower off. He mirrored Merlin’s pose, leaning against the wall of the shower. He was blinking against the water but staring at Merlin, pinning him into place with his eyes. 

“Not our schedule tonight,” he said.

“Sure?” Merlin gestured to the outline of his erection in his trousers. “Wouldn’t exactly say no.”

Arthur’s laugh was husky. “I can see that.” He licked his lips, let his hand wander down his stomach. He scratched his nails through his pubic hair, drawing Merlin’s gaze to his half-hard cock. “I’d up for it too, but...”

“But?” Merlin wasn’t whingeing.

“You’re gonna watch tonight.” The grin on Athur’s face was slow, crooked. “And you’re gonna love it,” he finished, low, self-assured. Arrogant. God, so fucking _sexy_.

His hand was firm around his cock, his beautiful cock. It was in perfect ratio to his body, thick and long, curving up to his stomach. As if made for Arthur’s wide-spanning grip, it looked impressive even underneath Arthur’s large hand. Wet from the shower, Arthur could slide his fist up and down it smoothly.

Merlin swallowed down the saliva flooding his mouth. He shifted on his feet, tried hard to ignore his own prick straining in his trousers. Arthur got really into it, working himself over just a little faster, twisting his wrist on the upstroke and swiping the pad of his thumb over his slit so he could hiss his out pleasure.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin said, shakily, twisting his fingers in his trousers. He wanted to touch, to _taste_.

As if hearing his thoughts, Arthur’s eyes shot up to Merlin’s face, burning, dark, from underneath his wet fringe. His hand stilled. His breath was deep, laboured. “I want you there,” he murmured, and it seemed out of context until he slid his palm underneath his balls. They hung between his legs, tight and heavy. Arthur began to knead them, slowly, indulging. “Between my legs. On your knees.”

“Yes,” Merlin hissed, aching with the same fantasy. He wanted his knees to hurt from kneeling for Arthur.

“I’d hold your head, make you suck my balls,” Arthur said, squeezing his bollocks. His eyes didn’t leave Merlin’s face. “Make you take them.”

Merlin couldn’t help himself, pressed the heel of his hand against his trousers, needing relief. It tore a groan from his throat. 

“I’d keep you there,” Arthur muttered, chest heaving from keeping himself controlled. “All day. Til your knees hurt with it. I’d—”

“Oh, fuck, _yes_ ,” Merlin swore, all reason lost, heart racing with the idea of it. His trousers were down fast, his knees on the floor faster. The _thud_ of it made him shudder, his dick twitch.

“God, you _slut_ ,” Arthur said, darkly delighted, his cock spurting pre-come over his fingers. “You love it, don’t you?”

“Yes—” 

Arthur fisted his cock again while tugging at his balls. The sight made Merlin’s cock ache in sympathy, and he gripped it, breath stuttering.

“On your knees for me,” Arthur said, voice going thin with arousal. “You want it. Say you want it.”

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, moving his hand too fast, inducing an overflow of pleasure. If he opened his eyes now, the sight of Arthur jerking off would be his death. “Yes, Arthur, want it, want you to put me there—”

“Such a slut, God, Merlin,” Arthur grit out. Merlin’s ears were hot with the slick sounds of their wanking. His breath shivered out of him. His eyes opened again to Arthur’s thighs parting more, feet sliding apart. Arthur had a palm against the wall to brace himself as he jerked his glorious cock with his other hand furiously, fast, hard, as if racing for the pleasure. His body was a tight cage of coiled muscles that broke apart when he growled, “ _Mer_ lin,” coming on his thighs and stomach.

Merlin choked back a, “Fuck,” as the heat gripped him too. The only anchor to reality were his knees on the hard floor, solid, grounding, there for Arthur.

* * *

**14**

1\. Sight

When he was five, he told his mother that he could see ghosts.

Initially, she brushed it off as the results of a rampant imagination and a bit too much TV. Later, when the descriptions became more detailed and elaborate, she took him to see a child therapist.

He didn't like the therapist. The therapist's office smelled like eggs, and the the therapist himself smelled even more like eggs. But his mom kept taking him there, and the therapist kept asking questions, so eventually he talked.

And that was how Merlin learned to keep quiet about the shadows he saw.

***

2\. Hearing

When he was twelve, he started to hear them, too.

It was like living on the blurry line between two worlds. The vague silhouettes of his childhood became distinct people who walked and smiled and held hands; they were transparent and insubstantial, but still very much _there_. Sometimes they saw him, sometimes they didn't. When he first began to hear them, their voices were muffled and indistinct, like whispers from the other room. They grew sharper with time, sounds into words and words into sentences.

He even began to recognize some of the people who lived in his house. They usually never acknowledged him, but he liked to watch them anyway. They went about their daily lives much the same way any real person would, just using objects he couldn't see and wearing clothes from times long past.

There was also a boy who lived in his room. He was blonde and blue-eyed, and he had a voice that sounded like he enjoyed telling people what to do. He slept in Merlin's room every night, in the corner where Merlin assumed a bed stood once. Although the boy never saw him, Merlin had begun to think of him as a friend.

His name was Arthur.

***

3\. Smell

When Merlin was sixteen, he thought he might be a little bit in love with Arthur. They were about the same age, he suspected, but where puberty had given Merlin nothing but height and acne, Arthur had gotten musculature, a jaw line to die for, and a voice that filled the whole room.

He caught Arthur touching himself once. Merlin wanted to leave, but he couldn't help it--he froze and watched. Arthur's cheeks were flushed, his forehead damp, his breathing labored. When Arthur came, Merlin thought he saw Arthur catch his eye--looking _at_ him rather than through him. Then Arthur closed his eyes and Merlin wondered if he'd imagined it.

When Arthur finally left the room, Merlin realized that he could still smell Arthur in the air.

***

4\. Feel

When he was seventeen, Arthur began to notice him back.

It started with the small things: glances, at him and not at the wall behind him; jolts of surprise, when Merlin entered the bedroom without Arthur noticing. They skirted around each other like leaves in an eddy. It was a fragile dance, and Merlin knew it wouldn't last long.

However, he was still surprised when they bumped into each other in the hall one morning. 

That had never happened before. Whenever the transparent people got close enough, they just walked through him, but Arthur.... Arthur was _warm_ ; Arthur was _solid_. And Arthur's face was inches from his own, and they were still so close, close enough that he could feel Arthur's breath, smell him. 

"I'm Merlin," he said belatedly.

"I know," said Arthur. "I'm--"

"Arthur, I know."

And their lips were close now, close--

***

5\. Taste

Arthur's mouth was warm and wet and lovely. Kissing him was like kissing in a dream: not quite tangible, but still a feeling, the press and taste. But it did feel _real_ and then, suddenly, it was. He pulled back, and his bedroom was gone. There was a bed in the corner--Arthur's corner--and the air felt different, _tasted_ different.

"Where are we?" asked Merlin.

Arthur grinned. "Welcome to 1965."

* * *

**15**

Arthur’s winter furs are beautiful.

Merlin doesn’t know what it is about them - the swirl of colours from grey to brown to black, the softness against his fingers - but he notices them every time he’s in Arthur’s rooms.

He’d spread them out on Arthur’s bed a few days ago, running his fingers along them more than necessary to smooth them flat. They’re soft, clearly having been worked with some kind of oil, and he can imagine how warm they would be covering his body. 

He wonders what they’d feel like.

*

Arthur’s away on patrol with some of the knights. Merlin doesn’t think a prince should have to do that, but Arthur has some very strict ideas about his duties and obligations to his knights.

(Merlin loves it - much as it worries him when Arthur goes off without Merlin there to protect him, he loves every piece of evidence that Arthur isn’t the spoilt prince Merlin thought he was.)

He’s tossing in his narrow bed, unable to sleep. He’s not sure what brings it to his mind, whether it’s the dry pull of his blanket against his skin or the shiver that goes through him when a draught catches him. But five minutes later he’s sneaking through the corridors along a familiar path.

Arthur’s room is warmer than his, but Merlin lights a fire anyway with a wave of his hand and a whisper. In the firelight the furs look even more inviting. 

He runs his palm along them, one way and then the other, enjoying the contrast of smooth and prickling. Merlin knows he shouldn’t, but Arthur’s away another two days at least, so he strips off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and climbs onto the bed. 

The furs are as soft and ticklish against the sensitive skin of his back as he imagined, and he can’t help but make a pleased sound as he twists a little, chasing the sensation. He spreads his palm out and grasps a handful, sliding down the bed, along the grain of the fur, and it makes his stomach tingle.

He wonders if Arthur ever does this. Arthur’s skin, winter-pale as it is, would look beautiful against the dark fur.

He starts to harden at the thought, Arthur spread out here next to him, moaning softly at the sensations along his skin. Beautiful as he is in sunlight, Merlin likes Arthur best by firelight, likes the way it glints off his hair and makes shadows on his face, and he knows Arthur would be irresistible like this. 

It’s fruitless to pretend he’s not going to touch himself now, he’s already hard, but instead of pulling himself off in long, slow strokes, he rolls onto his stomach, bringing his knee up, and thrusts lazily against the furs.

The feeling on his cock is different to anything he’s felt before. He moves his hips a little harder, and breathes in sharply when the roughness of the fur catches the sensitive head of his cock. 

His mind goes to Arthur, wonders if he’s ever done _this_ , and gods, Merlin wants Arthur here, the fur at his back and Arthur’s cock inside him, Arthur’s hands tight on his thighs. 

He flips over and finishes himself quickly, wishing he could spill all over the furs but knowing he couldn’t clean it up well enough to avoid evidence. After, he only moves enough to grab his tunic from the floor and wipe his stomach before sleepiness overtakes him.

It’s too much effort to get into the bed. Instead he rolls over, wrapping the fur around himself, and falls asleep. 

*

Merlin wakes to a hand in his hair. It’s still dark outside and the fire’s low, but he’d know Arthur blindfolded in pitch darkness.

“I - ” he starts, but Arthur kisses him, deep and frantic, and Merlin wonders if he’s still dreaming.

“Gods, Merlin, what are you _doing_?” Arthur breathes. “I come back to find you in my bed, and you’re naked, and you look - ” He breaks off and shakes his head. “I couldn’t - ” and then it’s Merlin’s turn to stop him, drawing him back into a kiss.

“Come to bed,” he says simply, and Arthur obeys, slipping out of his clothes and burrowing in next to Merlin, pulling the furs up over them. He’s dirty and sweaty, obviously just arrived, his eyes are already drooping shut, and Merlin’s heart feels unbearably full. 

Arthur’s skin against his feels better than anything, Merlin thinks, before he sinks back into sleep.

* * *

**16**

The streets are still foreign to Arthur, the tap tap tap of his stick more hesitant than usual, and so it takes him a moment to realise that someone's walking next to him. He can hear the squeaking of trainers against the pavement, the chafing of jeans. He notices the odour: masculine, sweaty but not rancid, a lingering taste of pub and second-hand ashes. 

The person - young, male, possibly a bit of a punk - isn't rushing by but measuring his pace to match Arthur's.

Arthur frowns but walks on. Waits.

''I've seen you around. You living in the area?''

The voice confirms Arthur's previous assessment, but there's something else: a nervous lilt, a desperate hope. The boy's not as brave as he's trying to sound, and it makes Arthur curious. Makes him answer. 

''Yes. Since recently.''

''Oh. That's great.'' The boy takes a deep breath. ''Are you single?''

Arthur stops so suddenly he almost stumbles. ''I beg you pardon?''

''I was just wondering... whether you might be looking for some company?''

Realisation hits Arthur like a thunderbolt. ''Are you offering yours for sale?''

''Only twenty for a blow-job. For fifty you can fuck me.''

For a moment Arthur is speechless. Being blind, rich and a person of public interest – not to mention preferring the company of men – has always made dating a heinously awkward affair, but Arthur certainly never considered paying for a sexual partner.

''How old are you even?''

''Nineteen.''

Arthur raises a sceptical eyebrow. 

The boy huffs. ''You don't believe me?''

Arthur knows he should just turn around. Walk away. The idea of taking this kid home to have sex with him is outrageous, wrong and dangerous to boot. And yet the thought makes something in Arthur's stomach flutter and his cock harden.

\---

The boy's first reaction to Arthur's flat is a low whistle, then he asks if he can take a shower. Arthur strips down to his boxers and sits on his bed, waiting and wondering what the hell he's doing.

The water stops, and the boy comes back into the bedroom, bare feet against the hardwood floor, smelling of wet skin and Arthur's shampoo.

''What's your name?'' Arthur asks.

''Merlin.''

''Like the wizard?''

''No. Like the bird.''

There's something there, hidden in the boy's voice, and Arthur's fingers itch to find the truth in the lines of his face. He doesn't.

''Come here,'' he says instead and stands, taking in the heat and the smell of the boy's skin when he obeys. He reaches out and finds a smooth chest, with hard, pebbled nipples. One has a piercing and when Arthur tugs it gently, Merlin lets out a soft, startled gasp. 

He takes a step back, asks, ''So what will it be, my mouth or my arse?'' 

Arthur hesitates. ''Neither.''

\---

Arthur pulls off his boxers and lies down on the bed. He spreads his legs, leaving himself completely exposed.

''I want you to finger me,'' he explains hoarsely, slowly stroking his own cock. ''And then I want you to fuck me. Hard. Rough. No-holds-barred. Can you do that?'' 

Merlin swallows audibly. ''Yes.'' 

But he sounds breathless now and his hands tremble when they spread Arthur's thighs further, one questing finger stroking up Arthur's cleft to rub almost shyly at the skin around the tight pucker. 

It's obvious that Merlin hasn't really done this before, but that only makes it better. Arthur teaches him how to use those long, graceful fingers, makes him use his mouth, all warm and wet and sinful, while Arthur holds himself open.

_''Please''_ , Merlin whispers finally, and Arthur turns on all fours. 

Merlin's cock is big, and he drives into Arthur in one hard thrust, the burning stretch glorious and perfect. Holding his hips, Merlin fucks him with desperate abandon, no finesse, no hesitation, using and bruising Arthur until he comes with a choked out sob. 

The room is filled with the strong musk of sex now, and Arthur's still painfully hard, Merlin heavy against his back. The boy pulls out, and then Arthur's on his back, Merlin's hot mouth on his prick, sucking him until comes down Merlin's throat.

\---

''I want to touch you,'' Arthur says after they've caught their breath.

''Thought you've already done that?''

''No,'' Arthur explains. ''I mean your face.''

''Oh... Okay.''

Arthur turns towards Merlin, raises his hands and carefully runs his fingertips over soft lips, high cheekbones and a surprisingly elegant nose. Long lashes and broad eyebrows lead to... oh. The ears are a little unfortunate, but somehow that only makes him more endearing.

''What do you see?'' Merlin asks.

''You,'' Arthur says and kisses him.

* * *

**17**

When Gwen arrived in the hotel room, she found it empty. This was not concerning because usually she was the first one to arrive. Morgana would show up ten, fifteen, or even twenty minutes late and sweep into the room as if she did not have a care in the world.

It was this attitude she craved and hated at the same time.

After twelve minutes and thirty seconds (she kept count), Morgana burst through the door. She was full of energy and excuses.

“You’re late,” Gwen told her.

Morgana said nothing and simply came up behind where Gwen was standing so she could embrace her. “So? We are both supposed to be having a “girls night out”. Let’s just forget it, okay?”

Gwen wanted to argue but she did not want to talk about their husbands. Those thoughts triggered instant guilt.

“Fine.”

Morgana turned Gwen around in order to brush a hand over her cheek. “Forgive me?”

“You know I do, Morgana.”

“Good.”

She pushed Gwen onto the bed and made quick work of both their clothes. Morgana’s touch was demanding and rough; the complete opposite of Arthur.

The second she started thinking about Arthur it was like Morgana knew right away. Her breasts were squeezed and a thumb roughly brushing over her nipple. Just that touch had Gwen moaning.

It was yet another reminder of how different this was with Arthur.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Morgana whispered in her ear.

Gwen could never lie to Morgana so she immediately told her the truth. “Arthur.” Her words came out in a gasp because as soon as Gwen answered Morgana gave her nipples a firm squeeze.

“I’d prefer if you think about me, love.”

She nodded. “Yes, Morgana.”

Morgana smirked and shifted around so her sex was hovering just inches from Gwen’s face. “Show me how much you think of me, Gwen and I’ll make sure to show you how much I think of you as well.”

The position brought a flush to Gwen’s face. She hesitated for a moment but got over her anxiety and tentatively licked Mograna’s sex. This was very different from Morgana who attacked Gwen with a curiosity that left her clit throbbing with need and sex dripping.

~*~

Gwen wanted to bask in the afterglow with Morgana after it was over but instead she rolled out of bed. There was an attempt to stop her but Gwen resisted her attempts to lure her back to bed.

“Arthur is expecting me back soon,” Gwen said while pulling back on her shirt. “Isn’t Gwaine expecting you back soon as well?”

“Yes, but we still have time for another round you know.”

She was pulled into a passionate kiss before she could answer. Despite the voice telling her Gwen had to go, she responded eagerly.

“Morgana!” she moaned. “I have to go.”

She sighed. “Then until we meet again, Gwen.”

~*~

The lights were out by the time Gwen arrived home. She tried to be as quiet as possible as she walked towards the bedroom but then the lights came on which told Gwen she had failed.

“Did I wake you?” Gwen asked Arthur who was standing there with an obviously sleepy expression on his face.

He chuckled. “Yes but I wanted to be able to properly say good night to you, Guinevere.”

Gwen embraced Arthur as he came towards her and kissed her gently. It was so unlike Morgana’s kisses that left her hungering for more.

“So did you enjoy the movie with Morgana?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

It was getting easier and easier to lie now.

* * *

**18**

Sometimes, Merlin relishes the leash around his neck: it feels like home and belonging and _Arthur’s_ ; other times, it makes his skin itch and his throat feel too tight: he growls and bites at it while Arthur pretends not to notice. 

Once, Merlin almost spoke, almost broke the rules of their little game, but in the end, he settled for baring his teeth. 

Sometimes, he thinks he likes this _thing_ of theirs a bit too much. 

*

It didn’t start in any way you might have expected it to.

Arthur has never been good with feelings or intimacy – he measures out his touches until Merlin’s only left hungry for more – but when Uther died, he became a blank, armoured wall that refused to crumble. Merlin’s heart ached for him; his skin did, too. 

The only thing that brought a light to Arthur’s eyes was playing with Gwaine’s new puppy, and one night when Arthur was shutting Merlin down at every turn, Merlin was desperate enough not to care when he dropped to his knees, frustrated enough that barking wordlessly at Arthur felt like relief; he yanked at Arthur’s trouser leg with his teeth the way he’d wanted to shake Arthur for weeks.

Arthur shouted some variation of ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ twenty-seven times, but he refused to give until Arthur became exasperated enough to try petting Merlin’s hair. It was the most Arthur had touched Merlin in over a month. 

He didn’t stop when Merlin expected him to. They sat there in silence, losing track of time. In the end, Arthur joked about dogs not being allowed on the bed. Merlin felt like he could breathe for the first time since Uther’s accident.

*

It was easy to keep doing it, to provide Arthur with some comfort by kneeling by his side and whining until Arthur rolled his eyes and gave in. Arthur had stopped smiling at Merlin the person, but he found a smile for the dog, and Merlin eagerly rolled over to make ridiculous noises and watch Arthur huff and hesitantly pet his belly.

It was supposed to be all for Arthur, but afterwards, Merlin would feel warm all over, his skin tingling. He loved to be touched – should have ended up with Gwaine, probably, if only he’d loved Arthur a little less – so it wasn’t strange or anything. 

It wasn’t.

Nowhere near as strange as fighting Arthur for a bone was, in any case, and Merlin threw himself into that battle with abandon.

*

The first time Arthur fucked him like that, pulled Merlin’s trousers down his thighs and held him down by the back of his neck while Merlin could do nothing but make whining noises, gooseflesh broke out all over Merlin’s skin. He flushed when Arthur sank his teeth into his neck, like he was showing Merlin his place, but then Arthur murmured, ‘Good boy’ and stroked down his flank and Merlin came, hard, shaking for a long time after.

*

Merlin learned that if he pushed his head against Arthur’s thigh, Arthur would eventually give in and pet him. He’d pet his naked skin all over: his hair, his back, his belly, his thighs. If Merlin was really, really good, Arthur might pet his cock, too, but it almost didn’t matter: Merlin liked sitting there with his prick stiff between his legs, dozing against Arthur’s knee while Arthur stroked him. 

Some days, he rushes home, thinks of nothing but that.

Sometimes, Arthur lets Merlin lick his cock – not suck, because dogs can’t suck, Merlin – just broad swipes of his tongue over Arthur’s salty skin and then over his fingers as Arthur pulls himself off, and Merlin can do nothing but watch, smell the heat of it, and eagerly lap up his come. 

*

There are days when Merlin will growl and shove Arthur off, unwilling to bow his head, skin feeling too tight. Arthur will laugh, now it frustrates Merlin; at times, they’ll end up tussling on the floor. 

Other times, Arthur will cover him, weigh him down until he relaxes, before licking and biting him all over the way he never used to. 

Merlin treasures every bruise, every singular touch, for days after.

* 

There are still nights when Arthur tosses and turns. But now he’ll shove Merlin, mumble about dogs not being allowed on the bed; Merlin will close his eyes again before nosing at Arthur’s throat and curling close, and Arthur will pat him even as he pretends to mutter disapprovingly.

Merlin doesn’t mind: he did always sleep best with the traces of Arthur’s fingers on his skin.

* * *

**19**

Isolde’s favorite part of bringing in a bounty is the catch. There’s nothing quite like the thunder of hooves beneath her, bearing down fast on a runaway mark. 

This one is sly, but Isolde ropes her before she can dart down a sheer embankment. She hits the dirt hard in a scatter of pebbles and dust.

xxx

“‘Hup you get,” Isolde says, pushing her charge into the saddle.

The girl has brown skin and a stormy look about her. Isolde supposes it’s earned. There’s not many would be happy to be caught by a bounty hunter. 

From her perspective, it’s a refreshing change to climb up behind such a pretty prize. Isolde is used to hauling trash — ugly, brutish debt-dodgers who are sodden with booze. She’s scrubbed enough vomit off of her tack to learn it’s easier to haul most catches on a long lead than toss them over her horse’s withers. 

But this girl fits neatly between her legs and the front of her saddle. Isolde lets her hands rest on the swell of her generous hips, kneading a bit with her fingers as they set off. She tries to get an elbow into Isolde’s side for the presumption, but she’s roped up good and proper and mostly just jerks her slim back into Isolde’s chest, puffing a whiff of sweat and cinnamony scent into her face. 

Isolde laughs, kicking them into a canter.

xxx

The advertisement calling for her capture only identified her as ‘the Smith girl.’ It neglected to mention she was a damn fool, running off into the desert in the middle of the night like she thought she had a chance of ending up anywhere but six feet under.

By the time Isolde tracks her down she’s almost succumbed to the frigid night, shivering in a ball on the hard ground. Isolde carries her back to camp, peels the ropes from her chafed, bloodied wrists and wraps tight around her back until the heat loosens her into an exhausted slump. 

“Who are you?” Isolde whispers into her ear, burying her nose into the fragrant crease of her neck. “You fetch a fine price for a whore or kept woman, but you’re too much trouble to justify that kind of coin, no matter how juicy _this_ is,” she hisses, gripping her between the legs. It makes her groan and arch, opening more of her pretty neck to Isolde’s mouth. 

The desert is a hard and unforgiving environment and Isolde has long since grown hard and unforgiving within it. She’s unaccustomed to softness, and part of her is tempted to keep the girl just for the novelty of it. Isolde fills her free hand with tit and squeezes at the giving triangle of sex under homespun cotton dress, greedily inhaling the girl’s bready-sweet scent, rocking her hips against her rump. In that moment, if she could trade the whole bounty for a bed and soft cloths for her ropes, she’d call it a fair price and pay it gladly. 

As it is, she eventually drifts off with her face buried in velvety curls and her hands tucked under warm, plush curves.

xxx

She wakes to her own hands knotted under her back and a solid pressure on her chest.

“Don’t get up now,” says a sweet voice. Isolde bucks, knocking the girl forward onto her hands. She sighs, sliding her hips down to pin Isolde properly, bringing them face to face. She has sparkling brown eyes. “I just wanted to thank you for untying me before I go. Here,” she adds, jamming Isolde’s knife in the dirt just above her shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to leave you stranded after you saved me.” 

“How very kind,” Isolde says. The girl smiles. She shifts like she means to get up and Isolde lifts her knee, thigh sliding firm against her cunt, making her pause. 

“You half remind me of someone,” the girl says, running a gentle finger over Isolde’s eyebrow. Her hips circle thoughtfully against her thigh, teasing, before she gets to her feet and shakes out her dress. 

“I won’t go down for Uther Pendragon,” she says as she climbs onto Isolde’s horse. “But if you had a cause to look for me again, I might have a cause to be found. Ask for Gwen Smith.” She grins, circling the embers of their camp. “I won’t be looking over my shoulder.” 

Isolde laughs, letting her head fall back as the thunder of hooves dims. 

After all, her favorite part of bringing in a bounty is the catch.

* * *


	6. Group B (clean)

**20**

“Why would you even wanna call a sex line?” Mordred asks.

Percival rolls his head to the side to give him an unimpressed look. “To order pizza. Why the hell do you think?”

“No, I mean,” Mordred starts, then rolls over on his belly and pushes his arms beneath his pillow and rests his head on it again. “Do you really need it?”

“I guess,” Percival murmurs, then looks at the ceiling again. “I mean, it seems like I do. If I’m to get what I really want.”

“And what is it you really want?”

Percival snorts and looks at him. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Mordred’s eyebrows draw together. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Come _on_ , Percy,” Mordred drawls and shifts closer, then all but sprawls on top of Percival and grins. “Talk dirty to me.”

Percival takes a breath, ready to tell Mordred to stop being ridiculous, but there’s something in his friend’s words that, combined with his warm weight on Percival, stops him from talking.

Mordred tilts his head to the side. “Is that it? Dirty talk?”

“It’s not just that,” Percival says. “It’s what the… talking would be about.”

Mordred twines his fingers together and places his hands on Percival’s chest, then lays his chin on them, letting him know he’s ready to listen.

“I just… wanna be fucked,” Percival says. “Hard.”

When he says nothing more, Mordred mumbles, “That doesn’t mean you have to call a sex line.”

“Yeah, it does,” Percival grunts. “There aren’t a whole lot of people who want to fuck me in the first place, and the ones that do expect me to...” he trails off. “If I can’t have this with someone I have next to me, I might as well get off to it with a stranger, even if they’re just a voice in my ear.”

Mordred just looks at him for a minute. “You can have it with me,” he says in the end.

“What?”

Mordred shrugs. “I can be good for you. And I won’t cost you a fortune.”

“This can cost me our friendship, you dork,” Percival laughs, even as Mordred’s words make his cock take sudden interest in their conversation.

Mordred huffs. “Who says it has to? We can get off once or twice or whatever. If we don’t like it, we’ll stop and that’ll be that,” he says, then sits up and presses his palms to Percival’s chest. “What’s it gonna be?”

“I guess we can try,” Percival says and Mordred gives him his brightest grin. “Wait, now?” He says when Mordred shifts on top of him again.

“Thought you’d feel like it,” Mordred replies and grinds down on him, teasing his hardness through their clothing. Percival groans and slides his hands up Mordred’s thighs, digs his fingers in. “Yeah?”

“Fuck, yes, okay,” Percival says and pumps his hips up.

Mordred laughs again and grabs Percival’s hands, then leans down to pin them on both sides of Percival’s head. “When you say you wanna get fucked,” Mordred says, voice low, “do you mean you want _me_ to fuck you? ‘Cause I can also imagine riding you until you’re screaming. Begging for me to let you come already.”

“Fuck, Mordred,” Percival grunts. “Have you thought about this before?”

Mordred shrugs again. “Maybe.” He raises a hand to trace Percival’s lips with his fingers and hums when Percival opens up. “Fuck, Percy. Will you let me fuck your mouth?” Percival moans and closes his eyes as he sucks on the digits, bobs his head up and down in encouragement. “Of course you will,” Mordred rasps. “You’ll let me do whatever I want.”

Percival moans again. He’s still got his eyes closed and it’s not because doing this is as weird as he thought it’d be - it turns out to be the exact opposite. It feels comfortable. Hot. Right.

“We can get you a blindfold if you want to,” Mordred says softly. Percival finally looks at him and tilts his head back so Mordred pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“No, just,” Percival breathes, “let me suck you already.”

Mordred makes a small noise as he unzips his jeans. “How should we...”

“As you are,” Percival urges him. “Come closer.”

Mordred tucks his fingers beneath his jeans and pushes them down along with his underwear.

Percival sees him smirk as Mordred fists his cock and teases Percival’s lips with it and he thinks, _Yeah, we can do this once or twice. Or whatever._

* * *

**21**

Strong, calloused fingers dance along the soft, fine flesh of Merlin’s wrist. The touch, barely a whisper of skin against skin, is still enough to quicken his heart and make his blood burn a little warmer.

A finger finds and traces one bright, blue vein from Merlin’s wrist all the way up to the crook of his elbow, a heartbeat later and plush pink lips follow the same path. The fingers linger on his bicep, tracing the shape of the muscle that’s become defined through years of hefting armour and buckets of water, and polishing metal until it is gleaming.

*

He smells of sunshine and earth, things that Merlin never contemplated as having a scent before now.

He loves it best when Arthur is fresh from the training lists or training field, his undershirt drenched in sweat. The scent of his King fills the chamber and it sends a bolt of pure lust straight to his cock. In a breath, he’s at Arthur’s side, hands fumbling with braces and gambeson, itching to get at the cloth, at the man underneath it all.

When he moves in close, he inhales deeply; letting the scent fill his lungs and heat his blood.

*

Merlin is frantic. It takes all his self-control to no clear the battlefield, locating Arthur with a spell.

The battle had been bloody and hard fought, Camelot’s Knights gaining the upper hand when a fog rolled in, shielding them from enemy fire.

Merlin crouches next to the body of a soldier in Camelot colours, his blond hair darkened and sticky with blood. He reaches out to turn the man, his heart in his throat.

“Merlin!”

Merlin starts, but is able to breathe again as he lifts his head and sees Arthur looking incredulously at him for squatting in the dirt.

*

“ _Mer_ lin!”

It starts with a shout. A shout that makes Merlin’s stomach turn lazy flip-flops and sets his magic to buzzing. He hurries to the corner of Arthur’s chamber, picking up a piece of armour and to polish.

The door opens and closes with a crash, and there Arthur stands; glorious in his mood, gaze burning into Merlin’s bowed head.

“You were expected at the stables two candle marks ago!”

Merlin looks up from his work and lowers his eyelashes. It may start and end with a shout, but it’s the breathless whispers in between that Merlin lives to hear.

*

Salt, warmth and magic; is what Arthur tastes like to Merlin.

His tongue reaches out to chase a stray droplet of water as it runs down Arthur’s chest and Merlin holds back a groan as he lowers to his knees.

It’s a heady thing, the taste of Arthur. Almost as heady as his scent, but not quite; it doesn’t fill Merlin the way scent does.

As he moves lower, his lips wrap around Arthur’s cock and flavour explodes across his tongue. His eyes flutter closed and his fingers dig into Arthur’s thighs as he savours the taste of his King.

* * *

**22**

Heartbreak, Merlin decides should never happen when one isn't watching. The jealousy he feels towards Elena takes him by surprise, especially when he really likes her. Watching Arthur try to woo her however, it's a hard pummel to the gut. 

It's only later, once Godwyn and Elena are safely gone and Arthur's out in the field practicing with his men, Merlin finds himself in Arthur's room, pacing.  
Arthur's white tunic is thrown carelessly on the bed, inside out and rumpled. He means to fold it as a means of something to do. But the fabric is soft against his hand and without a thought, he brings it his face inhaling. Arthur's scent floods Merlin's senses and the rush of warmth and happiness he feels makes him almost drop the tunic.

\---

Lying to himself because almost easy as lying to Arthur about his magic. 

\---

Arthur catches him.

It's early evening, the windows to Arthur chambers is open, the breeze flitting past the soft yellow curtains as Merlin gathers Arthur's laundry.

His hands stills over a tunic and much like he has done in the past few months, he gives into the desire of bringing it close to his nose and inhales letting out a sigh.

“What are you doing?”

Merlin drops the tunic, whirling to see Arthur leaning against the door frame.

“Nothing,” he manages to stutter out, hands clumsy as he tries to gather up the laundry.

“Merlin,” and somehow without Merlin noticing Arthur is next to him.

He drags his eyes up reluctantly, his face flushing, “I'm just gathering up your laundry.”

Arthur tugs away the clothing from Merlin's hands, voice amused, “By smelling my tunic.”

“I wasn't smelling it!”

Arthur is watching him closely, his much too fond, and Merlin can't help the way a tremor works up spine or the way heat curls around his belly as Arthur's eyes drop to his lips where he had licked nervously.

“Tell me no, but if you don't saying anything--” Arthur starts to say. But everything tilts and clicks for Merlin and he lurches forward, half tripping against Arthur. His hands grab hold of Arthur's shoulder as he presses forward. There's too much teeth at first and pulling back Arthur huffs out a quiet laugh, before tilting Merlin's chin. It's a slow press of lips but Merlin swipes his tongue, licking his way into Arthur's mouth. He can taste the wine Arthur had earlier and he chases the taste.

Arthur's hands are impatiently tugging at his tunic and Merlin pulls back drinking in the heat in Arthur's eyes and the swollen lips.

Tugging Arthur of his clothes is easy, and Merlin pulls the tunic and breeches off with a steady, practiced ease. 

When Arthur does the same with his clothing, his surprise is evident on his face because there's a sardonic twist of Arthur's lips, “You don't know everything about me Merlin.” There's a flash of something on his face before it's gone. 

Merlin hides that away for later as he pushes Arthur onto the bed, hands trailing across his collarbones and down his chest, not sure what he wants to do next. 

There's an amused smirk on Arthur's face as he pulls Merlin down before twisting them around so that Merlin is pressed against the bed, “Like what you see?”

Merlin pushes his hands between them, his fingers tracing past Arthur's navel and to his cock. It's hard and leaking against his hands and Arthur bites down a moan as Merlin makes a rough sketch with his fingers before wrapping his hands around it. He wants to taste it against his tongue, feel it heavy and hot, stretching his lips until he aches with it. Maybe later, when they've fallen off their high and this doesn't turn out to be another bittersweet dream. 

He jerks Arthur's cock a few times, eyes intent, watching the way Arthur's breath hitches, the way his arms tremble as he tries to hold himself up. 

A moment later, Arthur shoves Merlin's hands away, wrapping his own hand around both of their cocks and it's almost too much. The roughness of Arthur's hands in contrast to the way his cock feels against Merlin it punches the air out of him. Arthur's ring is a shock of cold from where it's presses against him and coupled with the scent of Arthur that's heavy against his chest and tongue, Merlin comes hard. His world narrowing to the way Arthur tilts back, neck arching as he follows Merlin over the end.

\---

“You can have the tunic if you want,” Arthur says later, when their limbs are entangled, the sweat cooling against their skin and the blankets pushed to the end of the bed.

He only laughs at Merlin's indiginant sqwack and half-hearted swat.

* * *

**23**

Gwen knows that ‘I don’t like the way you smell’ is kind of a stupid reason to break up with someone.

But the thing is, she hates the smell of fish, so she doesn't eat it. Steamed white rice smells funky, so she eats fried. The smell of rain is cleansing, so she watches it from her porch, and sometimes lets it fall on her head, even though her hair gets frizzy.

So when she finds herself avoiding hugs from her girlfriend and washing her sheets immediately after she leaves, Gwen knows that stupid reason or not, she’s going to have to end things. The relationship had felt more like ‘why not?’ than ‘I hope you like me back’ and butterflies, anyway.

A week of being single later, and Gwen was still thinking about the break up. She huffed, and crossed her arms tightly. What if she never found someone? What if no one ever smelled right to her?! What if-

A tall girl with soft-looking dark hair stumbled in front of the bench Gwen was brooding on, cursing rather loudly and trying to tie the strap of her dress, which had ripped from the bodice.

Gwen stood and shuffled closer, fishing around in her purse for the safety pins she kept for times just like these.

“Here, hold on, I have some pins.” She told the woman, who glanced at her in surprise, which quickly morphed into gratitude. Gwen grabbed the strap, but couldn't pin it without tangling the woman’s hair, which was indeed very soft, in the pin.

“Could you hold your hair up for me…?” She asked, trailing off purposely in the hope of learning her name.

“Oh, sure!” She said in a tone that implied she should have thought of that herself, and gathered her long black tresses up. “And it’s Morgana, by the way.”

The movement of her hair sent a waft of lightly-perfumed air to Gwen, who sniffed and leaned a bit closer, inhaling deeply, but trying to be quiet about it. She didn't want to seem creepy after all.

Realizing she’d spaced a bit Gwen quickly pulled the strap into position, noticing Morgana’s pale skin was almost as soft as her hair, and replying, “My name’s Gwen. And…okay you’re all good,” as she secured the pin in place.

Morgana turned, smile already lighting up her face, and extended a hand, saying, “You’re a life saver Gwen…” She trailed off, studying Gwen’s blushing face for a moment before continuing, “Let me buy you a coffee to pay you back?”

And, Gwen thought, who was she to say no to a smile like that?

\----------------------

One year later Gwen lay panting, trying to recover from one of the best orgasms of her life, and turned to Morgana with a smile, leaning up on her hands and knees to crawl closer and straddle her lover.

She paused, their faces so close that Morgana’s eyes took up her whole frame of vision, so close Gwen could feel her Morgana’s breath on her lips, and her lover’s smell surrounded her.

Gwen smiled softly, bringing their lips together and tasting herself on Morgana’s tongue. “Love you, Gwen,” Morgana whispered into her mouth, and Gwen smiled, sliding down her body until she was lying between Morgana’s legs.

“I love you too,” she said, kissing down her lover’s soft inner thigh, and pulling back to run the tip of her nose down the same path, inhaling Morgana’s scent, and smelling her arousal, pressing one last kiss to the crease of her thigh.

Gwen found Morgana’s clit and circled it with her tongue, using one hand to tease her opening. She traced random patterns with her tongue, pressing in with two fingers, quickly finding the right spot with the help of months of experience.

She brought Morgana higher and higher, and when Morgana fell over that edge Gwen worked her through it, heady with the rush of her scent that always accompanied Morgana’s orgasm.

Later that night, when Morgana was sleeping tucked against her, Gwen buried her nose in Morgana’s hair and inhaled, smiling all the while. There isn’t a way to describe a really good scent, or how they make Gwen feel. How her mom smells like lavender and love, how her dad smells like really strong men’s cologne and she’s frightened of him. She realizes now that it’s okay to define things by the way they smell to her.

Gwen loves Morgana, and Morgana smells like honey-suckle. Like honey-suckle and home.

* * *

**24**

"This is not a good idea," Arthur whispered. He watched the couple with the reservation ahead of them stumble along behind their blind (literally) waiter, through the curtain into the dark room. A restaurant that served you mystery food in a pitch black dining room did not, in general, seem like a good idea.

"No," Merlin agreed. "It's the _best_ idea." He grinned with excitement and then, unfairly, turned his smile towards the blind waiter making his way to them with the help of a sweeping white cane.

When the cane tapped against the maître d's podium, the man stopped and turned towards them with impressive accuracy. He grinned almost as widely as Merlin beneath his odd-looking dark glasses. "Gentlemen, welcome to Dans le Noir. I'm Gwaine and I'll be your guide and server for the evening."

"Lead on, Gwaine," Merlin said with delight. "Though I warn you, it's going to be the blind leading the clumsy, haha."

Which was why Arthur made sure his hand settled on Gwaine's shoulder first, leaving Merlin to hold onto Arthur in their awkward conga shuffle into the dark. The lack of light disoriented him as soon as the curtain fell shut behind them. All around, people were talking loudly, as though volume could make up for vision.

Arthur finally let out his long-stifled sigh, this time in relief as they settled into their seats, only slightly jostling their neighbors at the next table. Gwaine left to fetch the wine—or so Arthur assumed. He could have been standing right over his shoulder for all Arthur could tell.

He tamped down his frustration, determined to have a nice date. "So, how was your day?" he asked, trying to pitch his voice to be heard over the babble around them.

"Fine," the lady at the next table answered. "You've asked me that three times, Howard, honestly."

"Sorry," Merlin called back to her. "It's only because I care."

Arthur snorted back a laugh. Merlin's feet knocked playfully against his; he kicked back, which sufficed for conversation until the wine and food arrived.

Dinner, which had been his sole shining hope for this place, proved disappointing. "I can't even tell what kind of meat this is," he grumbled after a few progressively more disheartening bites.

To his surprise, Merlin started snickering. "Well, I didn't bring you here for the food."

"What," Arthur got out before suddenly the table wobbled and something hard bumped against his knee.

That something was Merlin's head, he realized when Merlin's hand landed on Arthur's other knee. As used to Merlin's oddities as Arthur usually was—

Merlin's other hand found Arthur's crotch and started to unzip him from his trousers. "Merlin!"

He bit off his words when Merlin's hand closed around him, lifting him out of his pants and massaging him. His cock was already responding, heavy in Merlin's hand with the first rush of blood. So many people, his brain jabbered at him, to which his cock responded with surprising pleasure.

A hand fell on his shoulder; at the same instant, his cock slipped into Merlin's wine-warmed mouth. Arthur inhaled sharply, brain and body confused between shock and arousal. "Another glass?" Gwaine asked.

"Please," he choked out.

"And you, sir?" Gwaine said in the direction of the empty space where Merlin should have been sitting.

Merlin sucked Arthur in deeper in response. Arthur's back stiffened in sympathy with his cock.

"Er—" He cleared his throat and did his best to throw his voice across the table. "Yes, please."

It came out high-pitched and a little strangled, and Merlin choked a little around his cock. Arthur waited until Gwaine's cane tapped away before letting out a tiny groan.

He was just starting to lose himself to the hot, steady suction when he felt another light tap on his shoulder. "Say," said the woman from the next table. "Did you order the meat course?"

Arthur managed an affirmative sounding grunt.

"Could you tell what sort of meat it was? Howard said it might be horse, because it's French."

"Don't think so," Arthur gasped. His pleasure was peaking, despite the distractions. If only Merlin could rub his tightening balls, but they were still trapped in his pants.

"What about your friend? Did he have the meat?"

Merlin had ordered the vegetarian, abandoned somewhere beyond Arthur's clenching fists. "Oh yes," Arthur managed. "In fact, he has a mouthful of it right now."

The feeling of Merlin choking again around his cock did the trick, and Arthur emptied a grateful load into Merlin's throat. Still dizzy with his climax, the next tap on his shoulder left him unfazed—until Gwaine laughed in his ear.

"Well done," he said. "These infrared glasses just paid for themselves, mate."

The table rattled from Merlin's head hitting the underside.

* * *

**25**

Arthur was born in May. He was presented to the court amid clouds of pinkish-white cherry blossoms.

During the revels the sorceress Nimueh unexpectedly appeared by the little prince's cradle.

“I come to claim recompense for Camelot's unjust persecution of magic,” she declared. “With so many lives lost, what's one more?”

The court watched in horror as she prepared to call down lightning, but her hand stilled. Even Nimueh's icy heart melted at the sight of the sleeping boy's innocent face.

“Some small vengeance shall yet be mine: The prince will never know the sense of smell,” Nimueh said, breathing the sweet-scented air. Flower fragrance enveloped them all.

“If I were as cruel as you, King Uther, your son would be dead.”

With that she disappeared in a flash, and was never seen again.

* * * 

Prince Arthur grew into a handsome young man.

Court physician Gaius kept attempting to restore his sense of smell, administering elixirs and sacred well waters. He never succeeded.

In his old age Gaius hired an apprentice.

Merlin was a gangly village boy with blue eyes, unusual ears and the brightest smile Arthur had ever seen. The prince quickly averted his gaze and downed Gaius's latest concoction in one startled gulp.

The next day, Arthur's door swung open when Merlin knocked, potion vial in hand. He peeked inside. Arthur lay on his bed, unmoving. A miasma of putrefaction filled the air, the telltale proof of a sorcerer-assassin's magic.

Merlin held his breath, lunged forward, grabbed the prince and dragged him to safety.

Arthur had been oblivious to the stench. If not for Merlin's keen nose and swift action, he would have died.

King Uther immediately appointed Merlin the prince's manservant and personal security-sniffer.

* * * 

Merlin enjoyed his work.

He was cheerful and talkative, but possessed a natural sensitivity; - he held back when the prince needed privacy.

Without making a fuss over Arthur's missing olfactory sense, Merlin started detailing the smells along their way. His descriptive powers proved unique. Arthur became acquainted with the perfume of roses, the salty sea-tang carried by westerly gales, the discomfort from fresh manure, and the pain of stale sweat.

A whole new exciting world emerged, full of scents and odours and the varied reactions they elicit.

Merlin had become Arthur's nose.

* * * 

The king frequently introduced Arthur to eligible young ladies. One evening they dined with the vivacious Princess Mithian. ('Smells like a dewy wild rose', Merlin whispered, pouring wine.)

Arthur as always was polite, but distant. He looked pensive when he retired for the night.

“The princess is very lovely,” Merlin said, gently trying to draw him out.

Arthur had previously remained studiedly aloof on the topic of love and marriage. Now he frowned. “She is indeed, but something is missing. Do you think.... “

He paused, then plunged ahead. “Consider animals. The sense of smell plays a big part in their... mating games. They sniff each other and use scent to gain attention. Are we like that? Is it because I can't smell the princesses that I never feel attraction?”

Arthur sighed.“Have _you_ met someone special, and known by her smell that she's the one?”

Merlin hesitated. “I know the smell of my beloved."

“Could you describe it?”

Merlin looked up, truth plain in his eyes.

Arthur blanched.

Slowly Merlin took his hand and pulled him close, breathing him in. “ _This_ is his smell.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, stunned. “Oh, Merlin.”

* * * 

Merlin was an attentive lover, offering Arthur's four working senses pleasure to make up for the missing fifth.

Loud in his ecstasy, Merlin moaned into Arthur's ears. He let Arthur touch him everywhere and look his fill at Merlin's most intimate parts. They turned love-making into banquets that thoroughly satisfied Arthur's sense of taste, - the many nuances of sweet, salt, sour and bitter.

Merlin dribbled tart apple-juice down his arse, spooned honey across his nipples and kissed Arthur messily with much tongue and a mouthful of spiced wine. Arthur sipped and licked and savoured it all, mapping tastes and Merlin's body.

His hands quested happily across Merlin's pale skin. He lapped up Merlin's salty sweat, suckled his cock to revel in the bitterness of his seed, and snuffled into the moist warmth of Merlin's groin and armpits.

Brimming with gratitude, love and laughter, Arthur bestowed on Merlin the highest praise he had to give. “ _You smell so good!_ ”

* * *

**26**

Gwaine loves the resinous smell of grass, loves opening the jar and soaking in the piney aroma before he packs the pipe and lights up. He's still half-asleep, mesmerised by the red glow of the embers when the doorbell rings.

He wants to ignore it, but he vaguely remembers his housemate last night saying someone was coming over. He takes a puff, savoring the taste of the smoke, then shoves back his sheets.

"Hey, what's up?"

There's a young bloke at the door. Gwaine doesn't bother to hide the pipe, but he can feel the kid taking in his dishevelled, half-dressed state and judging him for it.

"I'm looking for my sister," he says in this posh accent. Gwaine can't deal with Morgana's relations before noon. Especially one this blond and blue-eyed and barely-legal.

Gwaine turns and yells into the house.

"Yeah, she's not here right now." The kid's shoulders slump and Gwaine notices the duffel he's carrying. Gwaine's an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. "You want to come in?"

Gwaine is starting to feel buzzed and hungry, so he stops in the kitchen to take another hit. He's not sure whether that's kosher but whatever, Morgana isn't here and he's no babysitter. Arthur - the kid introduced himself - trails behind him, looking unsure.

"Hungry?"

Arthur shrugs.

He pulls out the Cocoa Puffs (he always lays in the junk food when he's got good bud) and opens the refrigerator. He forgot to buy milk. He shakes the cereal into two bowls anyway.

"So, you're Morgana's boyfriend?"

Gwaine chokes, shaking his head with his mouth full. "We're just roommates."

It's starting to get to him, the sort of smug detachment with which Arthur keeps looking around at the house, his things, at Gwaine himself.

Arthur brushes his fingers over Gwaine's bare chest and he almost jumps. It goes straight through him - leaves his skin tingling where Arthur touched. Everything feels slow.

"Sorry," Arthur says. "You had a bit of fluff." Gwaine is starting to notice little things - Arthur's crooked teeth, the flush on his cheeks, his scent, a combination of sweat, the train, and Axe deodorant, which Gwaine usually hates but it smells good on him. Sweet.

"Have you ever toked up before?" Arthur nods too quickly.

He relights the pipe, gets a good cherry going, then guides Arthur's hands around it, showing him how to keep his thumb over the choke until he's ready. Arthur coughs hard after his first pull.

Gwaine rubs his back and Arthur leans into him. He takes the pipe back, sucks in a lungful, holding it, then cups Arthur's chin and presses his lips open, breathing the smoke into his mouth.

Arthur keeps his eyes open, looking right at him, and it makes Gwaine laugh, a few wisps of smoke puffing between them. Arthur breathes out slowly, his eyes slipping closed.

"Wow, I can feel it." Arthur sounds awed.

"I thought you'd smoked before?" Gwaine teases.

"I didn't feel anything that time."

Gwaine feels like he has all this energy stored up inside him and watching Arthur get his first buzz is making him horny.

He's not altogether surprised when Arthur pulls his head back down, tongue working into Gwaine's mouth hungrily.

He's an inexperienced kisser, but he's forceful and it fires him up. He scrabbles to undo Arthur's shirt - too many damn buttons. Arthur slides his hands into Gwaine's sweats and squeezes his arse. Gwaine moans when Arthur's finger skates over his hole.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Sixteen," Arthur says, guileless. Well, at least he's not perving on a minor, though the fact that he's ten years older should probably give his conscience more of a kick.

"Fuck," Gwaine says when Arthur bends him over the couch.

He's not sure how they got here, but Arthur's chest is red with beard burn and Gwaine sees bursts of colours when Arthur gives him a hickey. His brain pretty much shuts down when Arthur spreads his cheeks and licks him right there, where it feels like all of his nerve endings are concentrated and his cock is rubbing patterns into the smooth fabric of the couch.

"You're so hot," Arthur says, hot breath and cold saliva. Then his fingers press in. He has lube but it's so far away. He pushes his arse out shamelessly and Arthur fucks into his hole raw. Gwaine feels shattered, coming on Arthur's fat cock and it feels like it'll go on forever.

* * *

**27**

“Would you like to play a game?”

Cenred shows a weak smile despite the wave of intimidation. No, he doesn't; not with Aredian. The Witchfinder’s playful, predatory smile is the scariest sight on Earth. He swallows. “Why not?” And bites into the apple he’s holding. He hopes Aredian hasn't noticed the tremble in his hand. The sweet juices of the ripe fruit fill his mouth and he swallows. His throat is tight.

Aredian pushes Cenred’s half-full plate away and sits sideways on the table. He takes the apple from Cenred’s hand and, still smiling, puts it away. Cenred tries to pull away but the Witchfinder’s grip tightens around his wrist to the point of actual pain. He yelps; tries to mask it with a laugh but it’s too late too obvious and both of them know it. Aredian brings starts to unwrap the cloth around Cenred’s hand. Uncanny feeling takes hold of the latter, as if he’s been dipped into ice-cold water. His guts twist and turn and he feels… embarrassed, as if he’s naked in front of a judgmental crowd.

“You serve fine food, Cenred, but would you recognize what you’re putting in your mouth if you don’t see and touch it, hm?” Aredian murmurs, and blindfolds Cenred with his own cloth.

Cenred hears the heavy step of the guards, and has to lift his now-bare hand to stop them. He won’t present himself a coward in front of the Witchfinder. His men stop and fall back. Aredian ties his hands behind his back. The tight knot of dread and fear tightens in Cenred’s chest, and presses heavy upon his stomach.

“Try to guess the food I’ll offer you.” In the darkness, the Witchfinder’s voice is on another level in instilling fear and terror. His laughter sends ants crawling all over Cenred’s back.

When prompted, Cenred boldly extends his tongue to take the first sliver. Cold and sharp taste prods his tongue and he jumps from the pain. When his tongue is back in his mouth coppery warmth spreads and mixes with his saliva: he’s bleeding. “I didn't know I was to try the cutlery,” he hisses a reproach.

“Blame your own impatience,” Aredian chides him in return.

Gingerly, Cenred opens his mouth and extends his tongue. Something tasteless and wet is pushed against the tip. He licks the smooth surface and it proves small and rather spherical. His tongue runs over a tiny rough patch and he prods the tip into it. “Grape,” he announces.

Satisfaction fills him when the berry of grape bursts between his teeth and the familiar taste of its fresh juice fills his mouth.

He successfully guesses the stringy meat of a pheasant, the tricky ball of bread which Aredian had mashed in his fist, the salty cube of cheese, the sweet slice of the apple Aredian has previously taken from his hand. He can hear his own elevated breathing, and the distant shifting of feet. His guards sound worried, leaving a guest hand-feeding the king.

He is feeling confident and smug until rough, hard flesh presses wetness against his tongue. He startles; immediately recognizes the sweetness of wine, but the other thing? His mouth has watered, and he swallows the drips of wine he’s been offered. His tongue runs over a smooth, bitter-y surface and a soft, salty underneath…

“You’ve dipped your fingers in wine.” Cenred laughs. “Finally a challenge.”

Aredian snorts. “Does the human body present more of a challenge to you, hm?”

Cenred nods and smiles. He hears a rumble of a plate being pushed away on the table, followed by the soft rustling of clothes. There’s a pause, then another rustle. A gasp of horror erupts from the sides of the room; his guards sound appalled, and their whispers are a mess. Cenred only smirks: he knows he has asked for this.

The Witchfinder’s fingers grab a fistful of his hair. Cenred’s head is navigated down; his tongue meets hot, salty flesh, with a musk he can’t mistake. It’s round and soft, and there’s a slit of an opening on the top, which leaks a taste he’s overly familiar with, yet completely unable to describe in terms of taste. His lips close around a ridge. Aredian may think he’s very clever but it’s a game for two, and Cenred’s no loser.

* * *

**28**

It starts with a pub fight, as these things often do. It's a mutant pub, the closest thing to a regular Gwaine's had in, oh, years. He's got rather fond of the place, which is why when Dagr starts on the two men who've barely walked through the door, he gets to his feet, claws already extending, and jumps into the fray.

(And yeah, okay, the dark-haired man's cheekbones, and the way his eyes had lit on a smile when his friend spoke, might have something to do with it.)

In a lull in the fight, Gwaine retracts his claws to introduce himself.

"Merlin," is the reply, accompanied by a brisk, gloved handshake.

"Look out!" Merlin's friend hollers, and Gwaine doesn't even think, just throws Merlin behind him so Dagr's attack hits him square in the chest instead.

*

"You're lucky to be alive," Merlin tells him when he wakes, later, in what can only be Merlin's bed, and Gwaine tries not to be too distracted by that knowledge.

"Not lucky," he says, sitting up gingerly. Just because he can heal doesn't mean he can't feel pain. "Mutant."

"Oh," Merlin says. "So it's not just the-" He gestures at Gwaine's hands. Gwaine can't help but notice Merlin's still wearing gloves, even though the room is roasting.

"It's sort of a package deal," Gwaine says, and even though it's fair game, now, doesn't ask about Merlin's mutation in return.

*

In a different pub in a completely different town, caught up in a fight Gwaine mostly didn't start, a gloved hand grabs his upper arm and yanks him out of it.

"I guess that makes us even," Gwaine says, when they're sure nobody's on their tail. His arm is tingling where Merlin had wrapped his fingers around it, and Gwaine wonders what it would feel like if Merlin touched him with bare skin.

"Not quite," Merlin says, grimacing, "since I'm actually here to ask you a favour."

 _Anything_ , Gwaine doesn't say, and hopes it doesn't show on his face. "Oh?"

"It's Arthur. He's in trouble."

*

They're sharing a tiny bed in a safe house on the edge of the city, and the proximity of Merlin's body is _intoxicating_ , even with the careful strip of space between them. It's enough to make Gwaine do something incredibly stupid, but in the end, it's Merlin who kisses him first.

"Sorry," Merlin blurts, flattening himself against the headboard. "Are you okay? _Fuck_ , I'm so sorry."

Gwaine can feel his lips smarting, something heady rushing through his body. "Do that again," he says, hoarse. "Please?"

"I could've hurt you," Merlin says, and Gwaine has to laugh.

"Trust me, that was the opposite of painful."

Merlin's face does something complicated. "If I touch someone for too long," he says, "I kill them. That's just how my ability works."

"Well, luckily for you," Gwaine says, "I'm pretty sure I'm indestructible. That's just how _my_ ability works."

"Not lucky," Merlin says, smiling for the first time since he found Gwaine again. "Mutant."

*

Gwaine gets a hand on the back of Merlin's neck, this time, stroking over the short hairs while he kisses Merlin back. Merlin's shed his gloves like a skin, and he skims bare fingers under Gwaine's shirt and over his belly. Gwaine gasps at the feeling it alights in him, and Merlin snatches his hand away.

"No, no, _good_ ," Gwaine gets out.

"You have to tell me," Merlin says fiercely. "As soon as it isn't, or whatever, just- tell me."

Gwaine just nods, straining up to catch Merlin's mouth again. Merlin's hand slips into Gwaine's boxers, curling sure and steady around Gwaine's dick, and Gwaine turns his head and keens into Merlin's neck. He comes like that, mouthing at Merlin's skin, Merlin coaxing pure pleasure out of him with perfect fingers.

When Gwaine's head has cleared enough, he rolls over and grins. "Your turn."

*

"Told you," he says, after. Merlin's wearing his gloves again, and he's got his head resting on Gwaine's clothed chest, but they're curled up around each other, touching everywhere. "Indestructible."

Merlin lifts his head up, and the smile on his face makes Gwaine feel nearly as weak as his touch. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Save your gloating for tomorrow, after we've got Arthur back, okay?"

"Not gloating," Gwaine murmurs, but he's tired, and Arthur is in quite a bit of trouble, so he just closes his eyes and lets himself be taken by sleep.

* * *

**29**

The dust was thick in the back of the Roundhouse Cinema storage room. Merlin had mixed feelings about going back there; it was dark, and quiet, and he was unlikely to be disturbed as he played and labeled the dozens of unmarked silent film reels that Gaius had sent him to go through. Then again, it was probably full of ghosts.

The old films were candy to Merlin's cinema major heart. The real classics already had labels, but this was one of the oldest film houses in the country, and it had acquired films from other houses as they closed one by one. Most of the films here had never been shown in the Roundhouse, except for in the back room where Merlin worked.

It was late afternoon, and Merlin had seen advertisements for toothpaste, baking soda, dish soap, cars, and condoms. He'd also seen at least a dozen patriotic shorts, and a few feature films. No classics, but one about a man and his dog that had made him grin. Not all of the rolls had actor credits, but he labeled them as best he could, and stored them on the shelves by genre.

He sliced through the blue packing tape on the next box, and carefully loaded up the projector before turning off the lights and sitting back. With the classic blink and tic-tic-tic-tic of white dots on the black background, the film began.

There was no introduction. But then, Merlin thought, perhaps the blue packing tape should have been enough. Two men walked into the scene wearing baseball uniforms, and Merlin didn't know if their team had ever existed, nor did he have time to take note of the name before they were tugging their clothes off to get into the uncannily convenient shower. When they were naked, uniforms folded neatly to one side in a way that Merlin knew would please any mother, one of them turned on the water.

The blonde went under first. Water ran down his face and made him close his eyes, and the light hair darkened and flattened over his head. Merlin watched the tiny rivers form down the man's chest, into the cleft of his hip, down his thighs to where the film cut off just below his knee. And yes, he ogled the man's cock shamelessly, just as the brunette on film took it in his hand to stroke. Merlin didn't need sound to imagine the man's drawn-out moan, not when he could see his head fall back, and his chest heave with heavy breath.

The brunette got into the water too, and did the shoddiest job of getting clean that Merlin had ever seen. He made great heaps of suds all over his body and the blonde's, but managed not to get his own hair even slightly damp- until the other man pulled him under the spray and kissed him hard. Their hands roamed across one another's wet skin, and Merlin could see their muscles flex as they ground against one another's hips when- the wall went white.

The film was over, and Merlin was nearly shaking from arousal. On the one hand, gay pornography of this age, of this quality, and with this much explicit detail should be preserved and recorded with every library in the world. On the other hand- god, he was so hard. He opened his jeans to wrap a hand around his cock. The box had been labeled 1925, and that was all, and Merlin tried not to think too hard about how the men he was thinking about were probably dead as he pictured what came next- the blonde man on his knees, sucking the other man's cock, no, sucking _Merlin's_ cock, light eyes looking up through soaking wet hair, lips tight around the head of his cock, one of those big hands grabbing the back of Merlin's thighs, maybe moaning when Merlin fucked into his mouth, maybe bending over so Merlin could grab his hips and thrust into him, push him flat against the-

Maybe- oh- maybe-

Those eyes were all Merlin could see as he came into his palm, biting hard into his own lip.

When he came back to himself, he was still in a dim back room buried in dust. His fist was sticky and his lip was bleeding. But unlike before, he now had a giant box of porn. Maybe a summer spent cataloguing film wasn't a waste of time after all.

* * *

**30**

It’s dark when he opens his eyes, his eyelashes brushing against something. He means to reach out to touch, but he finds his wrists are tied together, secured to a rope wrapped snuggly around his naked torso. He swallows and it echoes in his head. He realizes his ears are covered. He gasps for breath, feeling the first signs of panic.

A hand caresses his cheek, moves up to card through his hair. It’s gentle, calming. It helps him remember.

_“Whenever you want me to stop, we stop, okay?”_

_“I know. It’s not as if it’s our first scene.”_

_“It’s our first like this.”_

His wrists are untied from his body, led to rest on a pillow above his head. Silky fabric is slid in between his forearm, cold and delicate, making him shiver with anticipation. If he could see, he’d know its colour. Like this, he can only guess if Arthur is in a mood for red or blue.

He tries tugging at the scarf, letting out a shaky breath as it doesn’t let him move far, fastened to the headboard. Lips press to the centre of his chest, move up until they reach hollow of his throat. He tilts his head back, moaning when Arthur nibbles at the skin of his neck.

_”What do you want me to do? Which toys can I use?”_

_“Anything and everything.”_

He’s not ready when the buzzing toy touches his nipple. He yelps and shrinks away, but Arthur is relentless, dragging the vibrator around the sensitive nub. He takes his time, alternating between sides, driving Merlin crazy with changes of rhythm, speed, pressure.

Arthur’s fingers are mapping every inch of his skin, sliding under the rope, tugging at it to remind Merlin of its presence.

_”I might freak out a bit after waking up. Don’t let it deter you.”_

_“I know how confused you can get right after waking up. Maybe you didn’t notice, but we’ve been married for almost six years.”_

_“I noticed you’re still a prat.”_

Moments without Arthur’s touch feel like eternity. His body feels light and he’s vaguely aware he might be on the verge of sliding further into calm waters of subspace. Until something hot lands on his stomach. He gasps, arching his back. More of the liquid fire drips on his chest and belly.

“Oh, god,” he breathes out, no pleasure accompanying the pain. It’s so different from their usual wax play sessions and Merlin outright whimpers when the next spray of wax lands on his body.

“Orange! Orange!” he cries out, more loud than is necessary.

Arthur’s hands are immediately on his face and he’s about to take off the blindfold, but Merlin shakes his head.

“No wax,” he clarifies and nothing more needs to be said.

He relaxes back into the mattress when Arthur methodically peels the warm wax off Merlin’s skin, soothing each burnt area with a kiss. He joins their lips together when he’s done, mouthing something into the kiss. It might be “I’m sorry” or maybe “I love you.” Either way, more warmth spreads through Merlin’s chest and he lets himself go completely boneless.

_”Should I sing you a lullaby?”_

_“Shut up, you clot. I think the pill is kicking in.”_

There’s nothing but pleasure. Pleasure and Arthur. His hips buck up into the air as Arthur circles over his prostate. It’s too much and not enough.

He cries out when Arthur’s hand finally wraps around his neglected cock. Arthur moves both his hands in sync, years of practice reflecting in each movement, each clever twist of his wrist, each squeeze of his fingers right under the head of Merlin’s cock.

When Merlin comes, the feeling shoots through his whole body, every nerve ending tingling. It slowly subsides, turning into a haze of contentment.

He can feel Arthur finding his own pleasure in Merlin’s well-stretched hole. He can feel his fingers gripping Merlin’s leg hard as he pounds into his body. But it seems far away, like a pleasant dream. What matters the most is the calm. Safety. Love.

Arthur takes care of him. He takes off his bindings, carries him to their bathroom, cradles him close to his chest while he waits for the water to fill the tub. Merlin blinks up at him, shuddering as cold tendrils of what would be a start of a subdrop if Arthur wasn’t holding him close run through his body and disappear.

“Okay?” Arthur whispers.

Merlin nods, smiling. He’s more than okay.

* * *

**31**

“Witchcraft!”

Arthur nearly groaned in embarrassment over the murmured accusation as his father ran his finger over one of the numerous clay sculptures in the gallery.

“Not really,” responded a voice from the doorway. “I just find it really easy to pay attention to texture details.”

Both men spun around to face the newcomer. Arthur could practically feel his father’s frown being drawn down like battle armor.

“You are the artist, I presume?” he questioned.

“Yes.” The sculptor took a few steps forward, bringing himself into the room. “Merlin,” he introduced himself with a smile.

“Hmm. My name is Uther Pendragon.” Dragging his hand away from the statue, Uther strode forward with Arthur trailing behind. “I had an inquiry sent to you about painting a portrait of my son that you reject-…”

It took Arthur all of two seconds to see the explanation his father had insisted storming the gallery for.

“You’re blind,” Arthur exclaimed softly, unable to look away from the wide blue eyes that stared unseeingly at his chest.

“Yes, and now I see why my generous offer was rejected without consideration.” Uther’s embarrassment didn’t last very long. “Why didn’t you mention this in your reply? It would have saved us the effort of having to come all the way out here.”

“No, it wouldn’t have.” Arthur’s eyes were still locked on Merlin.

“No?” Uther echoed in confusion.

“I want you to sculpt me.”

It was now Uther’s turn to groan.

+

“I’ve never sculpted a human subject before,” Merlin admitted, palms running over Arthur’s bare shoulders as he walked around him. “You’re much more relaxed than I imagine most people would be.”

Arthur chuckled and tilted his head back, allowing his hair to brush against Merlin’s torso. “And why wouldn’t I be relaxed? Your methods are obvious; I knew you would need to touch me for this.”

+

Arthur’s muscles clenched as clay-stained fingers trailed down his abdomen. He was on his back and doing his absolute best to keep his breathing steady as Merlin’s detailed exploration moved further and further south.

“You’re flexing again,” Merlin scolded, a smile gentling his words.

“Sorry.” Arthur liked to think the apology was still sincere, despite how often he did it.

“It’s alright,” Merlin soothed, one hand trailing up to Arthur’s pectoral and the other down to the groove in his hip, measuring the distance. “It makes things more challenging."

+

“Please, _please_ don’t include this in the finished product,” Arthur begged, one leg propped up, the other fallen to the side. His hands were up, covering his face in slight mortification.

Merlin pulled the foreskin back so that he could trace out the underside of the swollen head.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured. “I won’t.”

“Then why are you still so focused on it?” Arthur gritted out, struggling to keep his hips still.

“I’m thinking about carving this out separately. Maybe adding it to my private collection.”

Arthur’s hands fell to his chest and he laughed.

+

Merlin was in Arthur’s lap, his thighs levering him up and down in a rotating pace. Beneath Arthur’s hands, the flesh of Merlin’s behind was fisted. Both of them were smeared with clay in the oddest places. Arthur could see a dried chunk clinging to the tip of his hair just outside his line of vision.

“I love the way you hold me so roughly,” Merlin admitted breathlessly, his pace shaky. “Like you never want your touch to leave me.”

“You can’t– You’ll never forget my– me –” Arthur struggled to focus.

“Never,” Merlin promised.

Arthur came.

Dimly, somewhere beyond the sound of his own moans, he was aware of Merlin’s fingers fluttering about his face, committing the furrows, sweat, and slackened jaw that etched the image of his ecstasy to memory.

Moments before Merlin followed him down the same path, he pleaded, “Arthur, hold me tighter!” and Arthur did, wrapping an arm across Merlin’s back and up to grip his shoulder.

Left with very little room to do more than simply grind down, Merlin cried out, his body squirming against Arthur’s as he pulsed rapidly against Arthur’s stomach.

+

The finished sculpture was haunting enough for Uther to eye Arthur suspiciously for weeks on end, looking for signs of bewitchment.

The statue of Arthur was nude, with a draped sheet twisted around his waist for modesty (and to hide the fact that Arthur could never stay soft whenever Merlin tried to familiarize himself with that particular area). But what captivated onlookers, beside the astounding attention to detail that could be found in all of Merlin’s work, were the eyes.

Despite being half-lidded, the eyes were staring intently ahead, straight at you if you positioned yourself right, with an intensity that made some people uncomfortable. The gaze was heavy with so many emotions; Arthur was shocked not only to see them on his own visage, but for Merlin to have picked up on all of them through the one sense he did not have…

Within Arthur’s chest, his heart clenched.

* * *

**32**

Merlin takes a cab straight from the airport to the hotel. He really ought to stop at Gwen's, but Morgana is probably there, and that means Arthur is probably there, too. Which means that Merlin...

.. well, it means that Merlin is being avoidant and possibly a bit of a coward. It's been more than five years since he's seen Arthur, and that ought to be long enough to forget.

Merlin sits down on the bed buries his face into his hands. With a sigh he realizes that it _is_ long enough; he can't quite remember what Arthur's voice sounds like when he first wakes up in the morning, or what his odd, tight little self-conscious smile looks like, or what his skin smells like right after a shower.

God. Merlin rubs his eyes and swallows back another sigh. He thought he'd never forget that; he thought he'd never forget any of it. All he has left is a collection of half-remembered impressions and an empty ache the center of his chest.

*

"You weren't at the rehearsal dinner." Arthur offers Merlin a glass of champagne at the reception with a smile that's bland, only vaguely interested. Maybe he's forgotten, too; maybe he's forgotten everything. "I thought Gwen or Morgana would've asked you to be in the wedding."

Merlin glances at his drink, then up at Arthur. "I think ... it was better that they didn't," he says and gives Arthur a half-smile, feels hope leap up in his chest, then sink when Arthur shrugs and glances away from him.

"Yes, well. I suppose." Arthur glances back and looks expectant; he touches Merlin's wrist with warm fingertips.

(He must be so warm, flushed with excitement and happiness and two glasses of champagne. His hands and his lips and his chest pressed to Merlin's back. He remembers that; he suddenly remembers how warm Arthur's skin felt against his own.)

Merlin thinks he ought to say something, to tell Arthur that's it's been so long, maybe they've both grown up and apart enough to be together again. But the moment eludes them, slips away silently, and Arthur just nods and lets himself be tugged into another conversation.

Merlin lets himself drift from the center of the celebration to its edges until he can step out onto the veranda and into the cool evening air.

So that's it then, that's what he remembers after six and a half years and a break-up that felt as if it had torn him up inside: the warm of Arthur's touch. He can still feel it against his skin--lips and fingertips and whispered words against his neck before he wakes up--and it makes him shiver. Seeing Arthur, hearing his voice, brings back all the things he'd thought he'd forgotten: the long mornings spent in bed with Arthur's hands all over his body, the way Arthur would keep him hard and wanting, how he'd last longer for Arthur than he ever would for anyone else.

If he closes his eyes, Merlin can almost hear the way Arthur's breath would catch when Merlin would touch him, when Merlin would bring Arthur off with his mouth.

It's been so long since he's thought about Arthur, since he's remembered about any of these things.

When Merlin feel warm fingertips brush his wrist again, he thinks, perhaps, he's ready to remember more.

* * *

**33**

The Druids had bound his eyes.

Fear and panic rushed through Arthur. He should have listed to his father, placed his faith in his father’s wisdom as he always had. If he only been patient, he would not be here now: naked and blindfolded, bound to a chair.

Arthur turned his head side-to-side trying to make sense of the sounds: hushed voices, footfalls on the stone floor. He had the prickly feeling of being watched and he could only assume that they were standing around the periphery of the room.

Suddenly all the sound around him ceased.

“This is the one who has sought us out,” someone said.

Arthur assumed that someone new had arrived. Perhaps the leader he had been seeking? He strained to hear but the new voice was too quiet.

“No, he came to us. I don’t know how he found us. Should we be considered?”

Once again, Arthur could not hear a reply, but he did hear movement and the sounds of retreating footsteps. Had the newly arrived Druid dismissed everyone else?

“What have you come here?”

Startled, Arthur jumped in his seat, the bindings allowing very little movement. He didn’t realize that someone was directly in front of him.

“I…” Arthur stammered nervously. He took a few deep breaths, gathering his courage and trying to remember that despite this exposed position, he was the Prince of Camelot. “I came on my own. I seek knowledge. I seek an alliance.”

The immediate dismissal that Arthur feared did not come. Instead he heard a soft hum as if the Druid was considering his words.

“Your kingdom has not been kind to my kin. We have been hunted and killed. Tell me, Prince, why should we help you in anyway?”

Arthur bowed his head. “None of that harm has been my wish. I came here alone knowing the risk. I wish to change things. I want to bring peace to the kingdoms.”

Arthur could feel the Druid circle his chair.

“What would you do for these changes? What would you give for peace?”

Arthur raised his head and faced the Druid so that if his eyes weren’t bound they would be eye-to-eye.

“Anything.”

Arthur heard the rustle of fabric then felt the warmth of another body as the Druid stepped into Arthur’s space.

“Understand that this would bind you to me the way the seasons are bound to the earth. Though you may take other lovers, or marry someday, our bound can never be broken.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “I understand.”

The Druid stepped closer, slotting himself between Arthur’s spread legs. Arthur gasped as he felt warm, long fingers encircle him and being to stroke him into hardness.

Arthur wished that his hands were not bound. At first he felt vulnerable, totally exposed to the Druid, but after a minute he was whimpering and tugging against his bindings, longing to touch the other man in return.

When Arthur was hard and leaking, the Druid stepped back for a moment and the scent of oil and herbs filled his nose. He positioned himself on Arthur’s lap as he stroked Arthur once, twice more with slick fingers before raising himself up and slowly lowering himself onto Arthur.

Arthur gasped as the tight warm heat surrounded him. When the Druid was fully seated, he paused for a moment and spoke a few breathless words in a language that Arthur did not understand. But before Arthur could question anything, the Druid had raised himself back up and slammed down onto Arthur’s cock.

Arthur growled and tried to gain leverage, to pump his hips up to meet the Druid’s movements. He felt a warmth surround them both. Underneath the intense pleasure he felt safe and connected, and grounded in a way he had never felt before.

And then they were both coming. Arthur didn’t know if it had been minutes or hours.

Still impaled on Arthur’s cock, the Druid pulled the fabric free Arthur’s his face. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness he was finally able to take in the man straddling his legs. He looked no older than Arthur, though Arthur could still feel the magic, old and ancient inside of him.

“I am bound to you,” he whispered in awe.

“And I to you,” the Druid replied, leaning forward and brushing the first kiss across Arthur’s lips.

“What may I call you?”

“My people call me Emrys, but you can call me Merlin.”

* * *

**34**

Arthur is nine years old when his arm breaks.

He feels the sharp snap of bone and the radiating, unbearable pain.

Only - he's sitting down, coloring, when it happens.

\--------

“It's a bond,” the doctor says. “A strong bond, by the look of it.”

“What do you mean it's a _bond?_ ” Uther snaps. He gestures to his sobbing, pitiful son sitting on the exam table. “Look at him!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the doctor says blandly, “but phantom pains can happen to bonded individuals. It's considered a gift, you know. His partner likely has one to the same effect. The most common are phantom feelings, unconsciously wandering to the bond mate's location, and mind reading. Only the strongest of bonds have an effect this severe. You should be proud.”

“ _Proud?_ ” Uther sneers. “He's in pain!”

Arthur whimpers in agreement.

The doctor sighs.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “But there's nothing I can do.”

\--------

“No, no, no. You've got to be fucking kidding me,” Arthur whispers to himself.

Arthur's in his first semester at university, sitting in the front row of his class, and somewhere in the world his bondmate is having a wank.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Arthur moans quietly.

The feeling of his bondmate's hand working over his cock is familiar, now. He has a certain way of rolling his fingers, twisting his wrist, and rubbing his thumb over the tip that drives Arthur mad every time. Normally he just sits back and enjoys the ride, but _now_....

As casually as he can manage, Arthur slips off his jacket and puts it over the hard tent in his lap. His teacher – a short, blonde woman with a droning voice – doesn't seem to notice his discomfort as she crosses in front of his desk.

His bondmate's hand starts moving faster, desperate now. Arthur's face goes red from the mix of pleasure and embarrassed panic. His hips hitch up before he can help it, and he has a white-knuckle grip on the edges of his desk. He can feel his bondmate is close, he's gonna – he's gonna – _fuck_.

“ _Mnn_ ,” Arthur moans and jerks in his desk as he comes.

The entire class goes silent.

“...Arthur?” His teacher says tentatively. “Are you alright?”

_oh god, oh god, oh god_

“I – uh, don't feel good,” Arthur answers shakily.

He must look wrecked because his teacher immediately dismisses him and shoos him out the door.

Arthur makes a beeline for the bathroom to clean himself up, and in the middle of wiping jizz off his cock, he feels his bondmate getting hard again. Arthur laughs weakly and bangs his head against the stall door.

“I hate you,” he says, more fondly than he means to.

\--------

 

A freshman is stalking him.

Arthur is in his third year of university, and he's been on campus for two days, and everywhere he goes there's this gangly little freshman with a lost, doe-eyed look on his face.

Arthur would find it cute if he wasn't so annoyed.

On the third day of stalking, the freshman plucks up the courage to actually talk to him, and by that point Arthur kind of wants to punch him on principle alone.

“Hello,” the freshman says with a nervous smile.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks tersely.

Freshman raises an eyebrow. “Well, Mr. Rude, I keep getting lost.”

“And?”

“And since every time I get lost, I end up next to you, I figured I'd ask if you knew the way back to Albion Hall.”

Arthur pauses, and he feels his body go cold with shock. _Unconsciously wandering to the bondmate's location._ Could he - ?

“Give me your hand.”

“What?” The freshman looks alarmed. Arthur doesn't blame him.

“I'll tell you where to go, but you have to give me your hand first.”

“Alright...”

The freshman lets Arthur take hold of his hand, and Arthur pinches him, hard.

He feels it as if he's done it to himself.

“Ow!” The freshman yanks his hand back and pecks a light kiss on the wound. “If you don't want to help, just say so!”

Arthur laughs. He laughs with a manic, relieved joy that bring tears to his eyes.

The freshman is looking at him like he's crazy. He probably is crazy. It's with a great effort that Arthur composes himself, but he's still smiling widely. “I'm sorry. You're right. I've been terribly rude. My name is Arthur.”

He holds out his hand to shake, and the freshman very carefully takes it. “I'm Merlin.”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says fondly. “I'll help you find your way.”

* * *

**35**

There was something about the smooth slide of satin over skin that Arthur adored. He’d grown up jealous of the comfortable dresses Morgana got to wear while he was stick with fabric that itched and felt too tight and confining.

So he stole one of those dresses from Morgana’s closet.

It had been a lovely light blue sundress, made of soft cotton. Arthur had been young enough that it hadn’t been too much of an awkward fit on him. He remembered standing in front of the mirror and twirling, just to see how it looked, how it felt, and ended up laughing joyfully at the peace and happiness such a simple act gave him.

He’d never told a soul. Not until Merlin.

Merlin who noticed his longing gaze at the women’s gowns when he had to buy a new suit. Merlin who saw him lovingly finger the soft pastel fabrics when Merlin supposedly dragged him to the sewing store he frequented, being a fashion student. Merlin who saw but never judged, never pushed.

He’d done something much better.

Arthur had had a late night at the university library, pouring over old texts about the history of the reformation in England. By the time he got back to the flat he and Merlin shared, he was shattered. That is, until he saw the carefully wrapped package on the couch with his name written on it.

Arthur had always been curious as well as impatient, and tore into it straight away. Merlin would have hidden it away if it was a birthday or Christmas present that had been bought early. As he ripped away the tissue paper, however, Arthur stilled.

“I made it myself.”

Arthur whipped his head around to see Merlin leaning against the doorframe, a gentle smile on his lips.

“W-What?”

“You look like an angel in white, and you posh people do love your expensive satin.” Merlin teased lightly, coming to sit beside Arthur on the couch, reaching over to lift the babydoll out of the box. “You can wear it whenever you want, and I can make anything else you need.” His voice was soft as he placed the garment in Arthur’s hands.

Arthur looked down at it in wonder, unable to help stroking the smooth fabric, only just resisting bringing it up to his cheek.

“But why – “

“Because you like it.” Merlin interrupted, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, as if they were talking about what they wanted on their sandwiches. “And I love you.”

Arthur was speechless, staring at the babydoll in his hands – pure white with red stitching that made him smile. Before Merlin could say anything else or, god forbid, take it back, Arthur threw his arms around him.

“ _Thank you_.”

He could feel Merlin’s own smile as long fingers twined through his hair. “You’re welcome, love. Would you like to put it on now?”

Arthur nodded shyly, letting Merlin take the lead as the other man helped him to his feet. He didn’t object as Merlin started undressing him, moving as needed until he was bare before his lover.

“Raise your arms, baby.” Merlin murmured and Arthur obeyed, his eyes falling closed as he felt the satin slide over his skin. It was almost like standing under a waterfall, the fabric just this side of cold and gentle as it fell into place on his body.

Arthur smoothed his hands over the satin, his breath catching as it had when he was younger, twirling in front of the mirror in his sister’s dress. And now he had his own.

Merlin yelped as Arthur attached their lips together in a desperate kiss, pressing his lover back into the couch before straddling him. “Is this….is this okay?” Arthur asked softly, nervous despite his bold actions.

“More than okay.” Merlin assured him, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist and giving his bum a cheeky pinch through the satin, making Arthur gasp.

It didn’t take long until they had pressed themselves together, grinding on each other to bring them the release they both so desperately needed. There would be time for romance, for proper playing later. This was to take the edge off, for Arthur to show Merlin just how much he appreciated all he did for him.

Later, despite the drying come over it ( _“I’ll get it out in the wash tomorrow, Arthur.”_ ), Arthur fell asleep with the soft silk over the babydoll resting against his cheek, curled into Merlin’s embrace.

* * *

**36**

Merlin got his little red Toyota the summer after they left sixth form. It was the exact same day that Arthur bought _Definitely Maybe_.

“I’ve been perpetually smelling of grease for three years to get this car,” Merlin said. “Why should _you_ get to pop my stereo’s cherry?”

“Hate to break it to you, but I think maybe it’s gone for a few rides already.”

Merlin shushed him. “I’m sorry, baby.” He stroked the dashboard, fingers sliding over the buttons of the stereo. “Arthur’s being a right dick as usual. He doesn’t know our love is pure.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and settled back in his seat as they pulled out of Merlin’s driveway. “I’m sure its last relationship involved Vanilla Ice.”

“Don’t use that kind of language in front of my stereo. Fucking Christ.”

Arthur snorted and opened the album case, sliding the booklet out. He mouthed the lyrics as he read them while they drove in silence, the window slid almost the entire way down in the summer sun.

“Oh god, OK, “ Merlin said, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Just pop it in.”

Arthur grinned.

*

Merlin’s mouth tasted like ice lollies, all sticky-sweet.

They didn’t talk about it.

*

“It hasn’t even been a week.” The breeze ruffled Arhur’s hair as he rested his head by the open window, peering out at the flawless day outside.

“You’re the only person in the universe who listens to an album until they want to puke from it. I’m switching to Radiohead.”

“That’s the only way to listen to an album properly, you heathen. It doesn’t really settle in until you’ve heard it so many times you can hear the next track before it comes on.”

“You’re a fucking nutter, Arthur.”

“I’m not the one who thinks Radiohead is appropriate for summer.”

“ _Pablo Honey_ transcends seasons, you dick.”

Arthur hid a smile as he looked at Merlin out of the corner of his eye. The tip of Merlin’s tongue swept over his bottom lip and Arthur followed the movement, breath getting stuck in his throat.

Leaning across the space between them, his heart creating some odd harmony with the opening bars of _Up In The Sky_ , Arthur pressed his lips to Merlin’s neck. A strangled sound passed Merlin’s lips and Arthur mouthed against his skin, the taste of summer on his tongue.

“Fine, fine, you can keep bloody Oasis on,” Merlin said, voice strained, and Arthur laughed against his neck, leaving goose pimples in his wake.

 

*

“Please,” Merlin whispered, hand guiding Arthur’s fingers over the inside of his thigh and down to the rim of his hole.

Arthur held his breath, lungs burning, as the tip of his lube-slick finger traced the rim, hand shaking. God, he had no idea how this worked. He hadn’t prepared for this: Merlin naked on the grass, thighs spread wide and his fat cock hardening.

Merlin’s fingers dug into his wrist. “Arthur, fuck. I do this to myself all the time, I want—”

A little pressure was all it took before Merlin opened up around him, yielding and accepting, and Arthur nearly pulled out in surprise as Merlin’s body went limp, his lips parted in bliss. It was a miracle Arthur hadn’t covered them both in come already.

And fuck, he should be nervous that they were outside, that maybe they’d be seen, but the car shielded them from the path. The music spilling out from the open door enclosed them in a little world of their own, one where Merlin was unbelievably smooth inside.

“This is unbelievable,” Arthur said, mouth dry. “Fuck, I’m _in_ you.”

“Not enough of you.”

“Ungrateful twit,” Arthur said, ducking his head to hide a smile. He watched himself disappear into Merlin’s body and moaned, pushing in a second before he could doubt himself.

Merlin’s eyes flew open and he pushed his hips down against Arthur’s hand. It was fucking disorienting to realise that his fingers were moving inside someone. And it was Merlin, too, who he’d never even seen like that, not until the sticky sweetness of his lips.

Arthur leaned down and caught Merlin’s bottom lip in his mouth, swallowing Merlin’s desperate little moans.

When he got three fingers inside Merlin’s arse, Merlin was riding his hand, a flush blooming from his cheeks to his chest. And Merlin came like that, Arthur buried deep in his arse as Merlin gave a final sob.

It was definitely maybe the best thing Arthur had ever done.

* * *

**37**

She grew cold and cruel, centuries alone will do that to the kindest soul, and she was never supposed to be so powerful, her allotted burden was simpler, she lost herself to the cat and tore soft bodies to shreds, but she had always come back to herself. 

He did this to her. 

He set her adrift on the holy lake, but he didn’t let her go, he tied her to the water, to the dark depths and the chill which would infuse her bones. At first he visited her, sat by the edge and talked to her and she was able to remember the gentle girl he wished her to be. But after the other one died he forgot her. He still visited the lake but he spoke not to her, he whispered lovingly to the other one, he spilled his searing, mocking tears for the one he loved best, had always loved most, and she withdrew, let the ice waters claim her and strip the illusion of flesh from her ghostly body, until she _was_ the water and the water was her, and so she grew in strength, the villagers made offerings to her, the fishermen begged her favour and all the birds and beasts flocked to her and took her into them and left a part of themselves for her. And so she grew, she became everything and everything was her.

Still he came and mourned for the other one, until he barely knew himself, but still he remembered his lost king. So she pulled weeds around herself to make a body and lifted a skull from her bed, washed brilliant white by the years and raised herself from the water and spoke to him, not as the child, not as a sorceress, but as a goddess, and he had to listen.

He was old and broken by grief and his wisdom had been lost to time, so when she made the offer he agreed readily to her terms. She would bring forth the body of his lover, which had lain in her cold depths for so many winters, she would lift him from the silt and Merlin could swim down and spend one night with him every year, on one condition, Merlin must not look on him, if he did she would keep them both forever.

Merlin stripped off his clothes and his years, diving into her waters a lean young man in his prime, she shivered against his warm skin and nipped at his ears, he had not touched her in so long, and she licked at his mouth, reminding him she had been the first to taste him. When he reached his lover’s arms he ran his fingers over the familiar muscles, he squeezed his buttocks and tested ridged scars, he kissed the strong nose and weak chin and tasted full lips, all this with his eyes closed, but he knew his lover, he knew Arthur. He knew the shape of Arthur’s cock as he eased it between his legs and the tearing pain as it pierced him, unprepared. He remembered the pace of Arthur’s thrusts and the imprint of his teeth in his neck. It had been hundreds of years, maybe thousands, since he had felt Arthur’s embrace and he recognised every divot in his flesh and every flutter of his heart, and as he grasped his fingers in Arthur’s hair and as Arthur’s cock found the tender spot inside that made his legs clench tight, his eyes burst with tears and he saw Arthur before him, bathed in diffuse green light, golden hair waving like fronds, and as he watched, Arthur’s eyes widened in terror, his lids peeling back to reveal the orbs of his eyeballs, his cheeks sunk in and dissolved, leaving him with an ugly grin, his hair came out in clumps in Merlin’s hands and his hard, beautiful penis withered to nothing inside Merlin. 

Merlin screamed silently as Arthur decayed in his arms and the cold lake-water rushed into his lungs and guts, claiming him, freezing his cells, absorbing his magic. Freya cradled him in her eddies, rocking his fragile body, lifeless and ancient, until his flesh too became one with her waters. And long after she had forgotten the names Freya and Merlin, forgotten what a man even was, she treasured the glint of gold in deep blue depths and the memory of the memory of a warm touch.

* * *


	7. Group C (clean)

**38**

“Only stir in one direction,” Morgana scolds, placing her hand over Gwen’s on the spoon, their fingers interlocking with easy familiarity. “You’ll confuse the food.”

“Confuse it?” Gwen asks, raising an eyebrow, but she leans back into Morgana and lets Morgana take over stirring. The sauce is more fragrant than anything Gwen cooks back home; try as she might, nothing ever matches cooking with Morgana here, in the warm kitchen of Morgana’s apartment, tucked away in the corner of a converted castle in Siena. Sometimes Gwen thinks it might be the tomatoes they buy, or perhaps the herbs they use -- she’s seen whole hedgerows of rosemary here. _Hedgerows_. 

“Pay attention,” Morgana says, and gooses her gently. “You’ll never learn anything at all this way.”

“I know enough,” Gwen protests. She knows the way olive oil should look as it’s poured into a pan, and she knows the sharp green scent of it when it’s fresh from the pressing. She knows the taste of wine from Morgana’s vineyards and the way it weighs heavy and soft on her tongue -- the way it tastes from Morgana’s lips, when she can’t help but pull Morgana close with the crook of a finger. She knows how sweet Morgana’s fingers are, when they make panna cotta; she’s learnt exactly how the muscles in Morgana’s arms flex as she kneads the dough for pici. 

Morgana huffs, a warm puff of air on the back of Gwen’s neck, and Gwen shrugs her shoulders, rolling her head back carefully against the tickle. “Incorrigible,” Morgana murmurs, but she puts her free hand on Gwen’s waist and sets the spoon aside, covering the sauce to thicken. “We’ll have to boil the pasta in a minute,” she warns, but Gwen doesn’t spare so much as a glance at the tiny ravioli she’d spent an hour filling. 

“In a minute,” Gwen agrees, turning around in Morgana’s arms and pushing her out of the kitchen, with its walls of strange paintings and copper pans, until she can bully Morgana onto the sofa they’d abandoned earlier.

“Wine?” Morgana asks, though her eyes are bright and fixed on Gwen’s mouth.

“Later,” Gwen says, and pushes the last few inches to Morgana’s lips. 

Morgana sighs into the kiss, easy for it; easy for Gwen. She’s a queen in the kitchen, a tragically -- and suspiciously -- widowed countess in the papers, but here, like this, she’s only Gwen’s. 

They’re nothing but fleeting moments, these long summer days when Gwen gets to take Morgana into her arms and lick splatters of tomato sauce and chickpea soup from Morgana’s skin, eat bruschetta and pecorino straight from Morgana’s fingers. The sun hangs low as it sets over the cypress and the caper vines; the oleander and dianthus Gwen picked for the table caught in the last light of one more day they’ve lost. By the time the figs are ripe, Gwen will be gone again, leaving Morgana to supervise her harvest and test new recipes all winter.

Gwen doesn’t like to think on that. She slips her hands along Morgana’s thighs instead, sliding up inside her skirt easily. Morgana spreads her legs and lets her, reaches back greedily to push the straps of Gwen’s dress down and run her fingers over Gwen’s breasts. They don’t break the kiss; Gwen thinks sometimes she’d be happy never moving from Morgana’s lips, lost chasing the taste of Morgana’s gasps. It’s the work of a moment to slip one finger inside Morgana -- two -- letting Morgana squirm around them before she starts to thrust, gently, barely rocking her fingers deeper while Morgana makes pleased, desperate noises and shoves Gwen’s dress down to her waist.

They’ve long since laid the table for a meal fit for a queen, and the smells wafting from the kitchen to wrap around their bare shoulders are more than heavenly, but this, here, -- Morgana under Gwen, inches from breaking -- this is the only feast Gwen’s ever wanted.

* * *

**39**

Merlin stared at the crack in the ceiling above his head, barely visible in the dim light. It was his constant companion in long, dull nights such as this. It didn't stop him from counting the days, though. Counting the days since he last saw the sun. 

He heard the unmistakable sounds of sex coming from the bunk below. The grunts and sounds of flesh slapping flesh were familiar to Merlin by now, after sharing a bunk with Edwin for so long.   
Merlin pushed his head into the thin pillow when the smell of sex and sweat invaded his nostrils.   
Two months and twenty-three days that Merlin had been in this hellhole of prison nicknamed 'Cenred's pit'. It was a pit in the literal sense, underground, the outside world barred behind thick, steel, magic-suppressing doors.

Everything below was a dull grey, like the walls that surrounded, or their uniforms and the food they were allowed to eat. It didn't take long before a prisoner's skin turned grey.

Merlin's dreams were grey. 

The guards wore white uniforms. To Merlin the colour now set off warning bells. He didn't want to be stung by their tasers, evil devices that turned whatever magic was left inside of them against them.

"Hey, Harry Potter," Valiant called out to him from the shower opposite Merlin. 

Merlin didn't turn around to glance at him. 

"Why don't you join me in my bunk tonight, huh?”

Merlin ignored him. 

One of these days the reputation he had as a powerful sorcerer wasn’t going to be enough to keep them away from him.

He got out of the shower before anyone else did, walking back to his cell feeling anxious. 

When a hand wrapped around his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He saw the flash of white and knew it couldn't be Valiant. He was only slightly reassured. The guards never touched them. Whatever they wanted the prisoners to do, they would simply order it. But the warm hand on his shoulder remained where it was, pushing Merlin slightly forward. Merlin didn't struggle even though something was clearly off. 

"Where are you taking me?!” Merlin was surprised by the sound of his own voice, cracking and unfamiliar. 

He didn't turn around to look the man in the eye. It was easier to not know the faces of the ones that kept you prisoner. 

After they had turned around a corner the hand was gone. Merlin felt a pang of relief mixed with regret. It had been so long since he'd last been touched, even casually like that.

A heartbeat later, hands were covering the sides of his face, forcing Merlin to meet the eyes of the guard. 

"Arthur!" Merlin croaked. Merlin felt dizzy from shock. It couldn't really be Arthur, could it? 

"Hush," Arthur whispered alarmed, looking around to see if anyone had heard. "I'm getting you out of here. But we have to careful."

Merlin stopped breathing for a second then nodded. Arthur took his hand and showed the way. 

The transition to the real world went gradually; the whitewashed walls at the other side of the doors, the dingy parking lot, and Arthur’s car with tinted windows. But it did hit him fully, when they arrived at the safehouse. Being outside, the sun bright and warm on his face, Merlin heaved and whatever was left in his stomach got out. It was a sensory overload that hurt just as much as it felt unbelievably good. Arthur held him through it, hand going through Merlin's messy hair and stroking his dry, chafed skin. It was only when he felt Arthur's hands get wet that he realized he was crying.

Merlin wouldn't let Arthur leave the room for even a second. Best of all he felt in Arthur's arms. Relishing in every bit of warmth and skin contact. 

When they were lying on the couch that night, amidst the "missed you" and the "I knew you would find me", Merlin felt Arthur slowly getting hard underneath him. A sudden hunger consumed him. He reached for the zipper on Arthur's jeans.

"Wait, wait." Arthur started, "we don't have to... Not tonight, not if you don't want to."

Merlin stopped for a second. He _did_ want to. He wanted to feel real again and he'd missed Arthur desperately. "Yes, yes, I want this. Please!" 

Covered in kisses and Arthur’s cock entering him inch by inch, Merlin felt his body come to life again. When he came, he saw stars.

* * *

**40**

Arthur cursed himself for being an incompetent fool. 

He had found Merlin, bound and injured, in a tiny hut deep in the forest. But in his haste to act on his intuition, Arthur had broken some of the most basic rules of a search. He had gotten separated from his men, and he had come without any food or supplies. 

He managed to get the rough ropes off Merlin, but it was clear that he was half-starved and dehydrated. Arthur had nothing to offer him but a water skin and some strips of dried meat that were too tough for the weakened man to eat. 

It was almost dark by the time he found Merlin, and while Arthur knew that his men would turn around and search for him, it seemed unlikely they would find him and Merlin before night fell. 

Merlin looked terrible, and Arthur doubted that he had eaten anything since his kidnapping three days before. The bones of his wrists were sticking out, and his face was gaunt, skin stretched tightly over his cheekbones. 

He'd been half-conscious when Arthur found him, and Arthur had done the best he could for him, giving him small sips of water. He’d wrapped Merlin in his cloak and started a small fire in the center of the dirt floor. The hovel was so ramshackle that the holes in the ceiling would act as a chimney. 

At first Merlin had seemed close to death, not reacting at all, but Arthur had pulled him into his lap, hoping that the cloak and his body heat would warm him. 

He knew that his single water skin would have to last until morning. He tried putting the jerky strips on a curved rock and softening them with water, but they were still too hard and Merlin was too weak to eat them. 

Arthur had to fight down panic. If Merlin died before morning, he would never forgive himself. 

Finally Merlin roused a bit, and seemed to recognize Arthur. He even managed a weak smile, and moaned, “Arthur.” Merlin tried to say something else, but the words were so thin and reedy that Arthur had to put his ear next to Merlin’s mouth to hear them. 

“I’m so hungry.” 

Arthur racked his mind. Reassurances wouldn’t keep Merlin alive until help came. He didn’t even have a cup to heat some of the water to warm Merlin. 

He considered going out in the dark to look for some berries or mushrooms, but he couldn’t risk falling and hurting himself so that he couldn’t get back to his love. 

The thought came to him, _I don’t want him to die alone._

And then he got angry, and said aloud, “He isn’t going to die!” 

He half-remembered something from his youth, some maids gossiping about giving head, and how swallowing semen was good for their complexions. One of them was starting to say something about semen being a healthy food, but then they had seen him and stopped talking. 

Arthur took a deep breath, then stood and pushed down his breeches and smallclothes. Arranging Merlin’s head between his legs, he raised his flaccid cock to Merlin’s lips. Merlin was so sick looking that Arthur couldn’t look at him and be aroused, but he closed his eyes and stroked himself, remembering the first time he and Merlin had lain together and how exciting it had been. 

He felt himself hardening, remembering how he had insisted on Merlin being on his stomach the first time, to make it easier for him to be breached, and how Merlin had been so eager that Arthur had had to hold his arse firmly to keep him from just shoving back without care. He remembered how Merlin had looked back over his shoulder, eyes dark. 

Arthur was hard enough then, and he brought himself off quickly and efficiently, making sure that the come went to the back of Merlin’s throat and that he swallowed it all. 

He knew it would only be a couple of tablespoons worth, but it was better than nothing. 

Merlin’s pulse seemed a little stronger after that, and they dozed off. Arthur woke to tend the fire, and was able to come down Merlin’s throat twice more that night. 

In dawn’s gray light, Merlin looked somewhat better. The knight’s finally arrived, and gave Merlin bread soaked in wine. Arthur promised, “When we get home, I will feed you apples and honey.” 

Merlin summoned a small smile. “I liked the taste of what you gave me last night.” 

* * *

**41**

The summer Merlin visits his mother in Ealdor, Arthur finds himself in Merlin’s bed.

The first time, he collapses on it in a melodramatic show of exhaustion, telling Gwen she should just leave him there to perish, that they’ll never find Merlin’s hidden sketchbook. Gwen, being equal parts nurturing and cheeky, carefully slides a thin, unsatisfying pillow under his head and secures a ragged, chafing blanket around his shoulders.

“Good night, little prince,” she says in a soft voice, then kisses him on the temple.

Something about the gesture makes a hard lump form in Arthur’s throat, and he buries his face in Merlin’s pillow to keep Gwen from seeing it on his face. He hears Gwen’s quiet footsteps, then the door closing, and then he’s left in Merlin’s awful little bed. He falls asleep almost instantly.

He sleeps through the night, completely dead to the world. His dreams are full of strong hands and thick lips, his cock wrapped up hot and tight.

He wakes up humping Merlin’s bed, and he’s a bit horrified at first, but then he starts feeling smug, like this will teach Merlin to leave him for the summer with _George_. Arthur spreads his legs and presses harder into the pathetic mattress, but it’s not enough, not enough, not enough until he buries his face in Merlin’s pillow, a gesture of frustration that hits him in the balls and slams him into a brutal orgasm.

Arthur is sucking it down, the smell in Merlin’s pillow, something sharp and dark that fills his head with a haze, his only thought a steady hum of _more_. He inhales until he’s light-headed, until he can’t smell anymore, until his whole face hurts from it and he feels sick from all the dust in the room.

His breeches are a mess, and he’s humiliated, but he sneaks Merlin’s pillow out with him anyway.

It’s fine for about three days, until Arthur has used up all of whatever that _smell_ is, and then he’s back in Merlin’s room, crouching on Merlin’s bed and fucking his hand while he’s got one of Merlin’s dirty shirts up against his nose. He cries when he comes this time, because the scent is so, so fucking good and he never wants to lose it.

By the end of summer, everything Merlin owns smells like Arthur, and it’s driving him _mad_ , not being able to duplicate the scent.

When Arthur finally sees Merlin again, some of the leaves have started to turn, and he’s _furious_ , and he wants Merlin to acknowledge the hell he’s put Arthur through. And the first thing out of Merlin’s mouth is, “Why does my room smell like you?” and it’s simple, not at all sexy, and Arthur can’t process anything but that Merlin recognises his scent.

There’s no thought involved in pressing Merlin against the wall and lifting his arms above his head. Merlin squawks a bit, then laughs, then fucking _moans_ as Arthur buries his nose right there, right where Merlin smells the most … whatever it is he smells like.

Arthur doesn’t realise he’s moaning until Merlin says, “Fucking fuck,” in his usual eloquent fashion, and Arthur pulls his head away slightly, sees the dark look in Merlin’s eyes.

“You smell—” Arthur starts to say, but then Merlin’s hand is in his hair, pulling hard, and the only direction Arthur can go is down.

Merlin shoves Arthur’s face against his groin, says, “It’s better there,” and fucking _fuck_ , Merlin is right, because it is better there. Merlin’s cock is hard and he smells _so. fucking. good_. Arthur rubs his face all over Merlin’s crotch, his skin aching from the chafing fabric.

Merlin’s the one who manages to get his trousers off, his thick cock smacking Arthur’s cheek, and Arthur’s dumbfounded for a minute, just staring at the dark hair Merlin’s got there and thinking how fucking amazing he must smell there.

“Suck my cock, you fucking tease,” Merlin says, and Arthur stuffs as much of it in as he can, because all he can think of is getting his nose as close to Merlin’s magical skin as possible.

(Later he learns that licking Merlin’s arsehole is perhaps the most perfect thing a man can experience, that Merlin goes from ticklish to aroused in the span of about four seconds, and that while Merlin likes the way Arthur smells, what really gets him off is the feel of Arthur’s body hair. It takes all kinds.)

* * *

**42**

“Would you have me fucked in the stocks?”

Merlin's lips were visibly wet with saliva. Arthur still had the reminder of a sweet honeyed flavour of the mead and delectable, appreciated warmth of Merlin's mouth.

The words just as filthy in their implications, stirring waves of lust. Arthur fought off a gaping look.

“Does the thought of being publicly humiliated with your arse bared to the common-folk give you satisfaction…?” he asked, voice rumbling.

Merlin dismissively chuckled, grinning. “No, it's… you never fucked me in the stocks is all.”

“I think you'd enjoy tormenting them and my knights.” Arthur didn't let go of Merlin's hands but thrust his cock up, lips upturning. “Perhaps it's the thought they know you are mine and need no one else? Would they long to see you abandoned to pleasure, to feel you tightening around them?”

Arthur's lips created a path over Merlin's neck, flicking his tongue over a nice, warm, reddened welt. His nerves hummed at Merlin's half-naked body squirming under Arthur's weight.

He released Merlin's hands. 

Arthur could have gotten off on this, on Merlin's heat and his large cock flush to him, hearing his own name leave Merlin's lips in furious ecstasy.

It was merely talk. Arthur wouldn't _dare_ let any of his father's knights have Merlin, have him pliant and begging, willingly or coerced.

“I'm not fucking you in the stocks, Merlin.”

“Pity,” Merlin said with a hint of sarcasm. 

Arthur's hand repositioned underneath Merlin's head resting on the bed's pelts. They only had the wee hours of dawn now before Arthur would be summoned. The boy arched wanton into him, nearly tremoring. Arthur's tongue nudged against Merlin's, encouraging it to move with a similar pace. His lips found Merlin's throat, kissing downwards.

He opened his mouth against bare, sweat-tasting skin, sucking another welt. If Merlin woke with bruises, he wanted Merlin to understand who they were from.

Arthur's hands crawled to Merlin's night-shift, fingers smoothing Merlin's abdomen before dragging in his fingernails.

The little sighing noises leaving Merlin only hardened Arthur's prick. He disengaged from Merlin, taking the hem and yanking up impatiently. 

“Take off these rags,” Arthur said, quietly.

As soon as he did, Arthur's hand trailed the inside of Merlin's firm thigh. He was a _reward_ to all of Arthur's senses. He needed Merlin in the eve-fall, those pale cheeks colored dark, eyes bright. Hands pushed against Merlin's legs, lifting them back slightly when Arthur had spent inside him with a couple, breathless thrusts.

Arthur considered mouthing the warm puffiness of Merlin's bottom lip until he felt Merlin surge forward, this time chastely.

While it was lovely, Arthur's veins were still hot with blood, and he wanted Merlin so fiercely. Arthur's fingers dug into black locks as he kissed the boy roughly, wet lips sliding together. As soon as Arthur felt him melt into it, he let go of Merlin's head, licking along the swollen rim of his lips.

His seed cooled insides of Merlin's thighs, and along the crease of his arse where Arthur's fingers roamed lazy.

He rubbed on the stretched pucker. His forefinger slipped easily into that _glorious_ , damp heat. Arthur didn't wish Merlin anxiety or to believe he was trapped… but Arthur expected he wouldn't take kindly to someone debauching his manservant… his friend… his… whatever Merlin was now.

“Uugh, _sire_ …”

He probed another finger between Merlin's cheeks, rubbing down again, gently to his slick opening.

“If you're not going to fuck me, I'll do it myself then,” Merlin spat out.

Arthur grit his teeth at the sudden, vibrant image of Merlin with color high on him, dark head thrown back, fingering himself open and moaning at his own gestures. He mimicked his imaginings, twisting and plunging his two fingers deeper inside. He worked them in, out, in Merlin's oil and come-dripping hole, arching slowly and gradually apart while seated within. 

It was… _magnificent_. All that blazing heat, how full Merlin was.

“You're impossible,” Arthur said, muttering. “ _Impossible_.”

His tongue laved over a tender, bruising mark. He felt Merlin's entire body spasm helpless beneath him, muscles and his channel going taut with the orgasm before relaxing.

Merlin's whining cry swallowed from existence, devoured in Arthur's throat and his greedy mouth.

He craved every sensation Merlin could give him willingly, and would spare none for any others.

* * *

**43**

Arthur wasn’t used to smelling nice smells. Fresh, cleanly scents were a rare find in Camelot. With so many living in the city the air never seemed as breathable as the forest air outside it. The only time the castle smelled halfway decent was when a feast was prepared, and the strong scent of whatever was cooking spread through the halls. Still, that wasn’t exactly refreshing.

The prince was used to the smells, he’d grown up smelling them, and also relishing in the nights of his baths when the scents finally seemed to fall from his skin. 

Because yes, Arthur never really smelled that nice either. 

It was a fact, Arthur just _knew_ once he walked through the gates of Camelot, everything stank.

Of course, like most the facts of Arthur’s life, this one didn’t apply to Merlin.

Bloody _Mer_ lin.

Arthur still remembered the first time he’d caught a whiff of Merlin’s distinct scent. Arthur had pulled Merlin’s backside flush against his front. The scent, so close, strong, gathered heavily at the top of Merlin’s neck and in his greasy hair. 

Entering Merlin’s personal space was like stepping into the deepest, greenest part of the forest. He had a smell that just made Arthur want to breathe and the scent clung to Merlin loyally, even throughout his running around Camelot. 

Then Arthur started to pay more attention and he noticed the scent was alive. It grew and changed as much as the emotions shown on Merlin’s face. Arthur unconsciously studied the scents as he and the servant spent more time together. He’d learned he didn’t like the burnt stench of Merlin’s anger. Or the sour tang of wildflowers that wafted through the air when jealousy ate away at Merlin’s face. 

He'd learned that it was insanely distracting . . . 

Which was why Arthur was proud he’d lasted so long. 

Arthur found himself nearly twitching to hold Merlin down and bury his nose deep in every crevasse of the servant's body. He wanted to pin Merlin to the bed and rub until the scent of Merlin was all he could smell on himself for days.

Arthur always knew, too, that the day he'd snap would be a day Merlin overflowed with pleasantness. A day when Merlin smelled of nothing but spring. 

Merlin changed Arthur and this close the prince could smell how happy Merlin was, how content Merlin was to be with him. And the scent of it was overwhelmingly good. 

Arthur was topless, suddenly, and Merlin was backing away from him. Ripping the scent right from Arthur's nostrils. 

Arthur had pulled him back before he'd even processed it’d gone.

One hand found Merlin's hip while the other one thrust through Merlin's hair and held tightly. Arthur stuck his nose right in the deepest dip of Merlin's neck. Where his ear, and the sharp line of his neck and jaw met. Arthur licked his lips and swore he could taste the scent melting into his tongue. 

The long stretches of Merlin's skin were like barely hardened honey as Arthur licked along them. But the dark, warm spaces in between were bursting with the too fresh scent of sprouting plants and sticky pollen. 

Underneath, in the folds of his legs, Merlin smelt somehow more basic, but no less intoxicating. There was the manly scent of his leaking cock, bitter as Arthur took it in his mouth. Both the natural bitterness and the strange sweetness grew as Arthur flipped Merlin over and opened him with his tongue. Merlin lost all control and Arthur felt much the same as he shoved fingers in and out of Merlin and lapped at the tightly pulled ring around them. At that point he couldn't tell what parts of Merlin he was tasting and which parts he was smelling. 

Arthur thought the sensations couldn't grow anymore, couldn't get any stronger than when he buried himself in Merlin, and fucked him until the servant cried out and came in spurts as he clenched around Arthur. But then Arthur came, deep and long inside Merlin, and it was like Arthur could pinpoint the exact second their scents met and Merlin's accepted his own. The exact second they melted together and became one. Nothing was better than that. 

Arthur never really smelled bad again, but he didn't know if it was permanent thing or not. They never really stopped fucking long enough for him to figure out. 

* * *

**44**

When he wakes up the sky’s grey, the air frigid, and the frosty grass under him prickles through his tunic. His first thought is that it might snow soon—the wind carrying that fresh, sharp smell that speaks of incoming winter.

He coughs, chokes, then vomits water over the ground.

***

The nights are still the strangest. 

Arthur wakes to the sound of a lorry driving down the road—breaks screeching high as it stops at the corner. It still makes him twitch—an aborted movement to grab a dagger under his pillow, a sword by the bed—with a surge in his blood that has him wide awake and staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the engine as it fades in the distance.

He holds his breath until the stillness returns, but just as he thinks he can breathe, it’s broken again by the lights of a car passing over the walls, the sound of tires over wet cement.

“Arthur?”

Merlin stands in the doorway, backlit and tall. 

Arthur didn’t remember him being this tall before—taller than him. 

“That’s because you were too busy thinking your Royal Ass superior to everyone else’s,” Merlin said when Arthur had commented on it.

“And whose fault is that, Merlin _‘Oh Arthur, you will be the greatest King the world has ever known’_ Emrys?” Arthur had replied around a mouthful of macaroni and cheese—Arthur was a big fan.

Arthur pushes the covers aside without a word as Merlin closes the light and the door behind him. For a moment Arthur can’t see anything, can only hear the soft padding of Merlin’s feet on the floor until the bed dips under Merlin’s weight. 

As usual, Merlin manhandles Arthur until his head’s on Arthur’s chest, then wraps an arm around his waist—his body a long, warm line along Arthur’s.

When he’s certain that Merlin’s comfortable, Arthur reaches around and covers Merlin’s ear with his hand, lets him hear proper the _thump thump thump_ of Arthur’s heart. 

***

“I got you something,” Arthur says one night. He reaches out to turn on the bedside lamp, its yellow light soft and spilling over half of the room, but bright enough to make Merlin groan and turn his face into Arthur’s chest, rub his nose over it, all wrinkled with annoyance and sleepiness. 

“Arthur what—” Merlin starts, jolted out of his doze when Arthur puts the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope over Merlin’s cheek. “Jesus, where—”

“Off the internet,” Arthur says, and he knows he sounds smug, knows this is as much a surprise to Merlin as the object itself. Arthur enjoys doing that—surprising Merlin with little, unexpected things that make him look half awed, half proud of Arthur.

“Off the internet.”

“Mmmmhmm.” Arthur twists the stethoscope in his hands. “Julia helped me,” he admits after a long moment of silence as Merlin sits straighter and stares at him. “But it was my idea.”

He fits the earpieces over Merlin’s ear and places the other end and over his own heart.

Arthur watches as Merlin’s face does this—this _thing_ , sort of crumbles and twists like he’s going to cry for a moment. His hand settles over Arthur’s, pushes the diaphragm into his skin. 

“Arthur—”

“I’m here, Merlin,” he says, and his voice breaks a little, enough for Merlin to look back from their joined hands to his face, eyes searching. “I’m here.”

Arthur barely hears the cars passing by, only sees their lights passing over Merlin’s face as he hitches his hips against Arthur’s, eyes closed and teeth biting his lip. He blows harsh little breaths through his nose, one hand beside Arthur’s head, the other still pushing the stethoscope over his heart.

Arthur moves his hips against his, pushes his hand between them to wrap it around Merlin’s cock, already leaking over Arthur’s fingers.

Arthur feels open and striped bare, knows that Merlin can hear every pump of his heart, the gasping breaths—every hitch, every sigh, every gasp. There’s no place to mask the deep resonance of his moans or grunts, the whimper he’d normally suppress when the head of his cock slides in the groove of Merlin’s hip with perfect friction.

He can’t hide; Merlin hears it all.

And when Merlin comes, Arthur wipes the tears off his cheek with his thumb, dragging come over his face by accident. Merlin glares, even through his shudders, and Arthur laughs, happy in the knowledge that Merlin will hear, inside each heartbeat, every word he hasn’t learned yet how to say.

* * *

**45**

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and breathes deep. Their position still feels a little off, but the smell of the sheets is perfect: it’s Arthur’s insistence on luxury and order, with the barest whiff of the last time he fucked Merlin into the mattress.

“I expect you to count,” says Arthur, and Merlin nods, face rubbing against the sheets, stomach tensing in anticipation.

His _one_ comes out in a grunt of surprise, not pain. _Two,_ it’s good, no need to say anything else, Arthur wouldn’t want him to, but after _four_ he mutters “harder.” The next three slaps to his arse are sharper, surer, but still not quite what he’s hoping for.

“Hold still, Merlin,” Arthur says testily, and Merlin has to smile, because he _would_ know. “I’m doing you a favour here. That doesn’t mean you’re going to get everything you want.”

“Yes, sir, thank you for reminding me,” Merlin says, and goes on counting, eight, nine, forgetting his frustration as the hurt deepens and blooms, fourteen, fifteen, and it’s almost like Arthur’s really there when he says,

“That’s enough. Get this wet for me now.”

A spanking’s a spanking, brutal or sweet, no matter the age or the technology, it has him hard and panting and ready. But Gwen’s fingers in his mouth can only be Gwen’s fingers, earthy and soft from her work in the garden, and Merlin can only suckle them lovingly, savouring the taste and the moment for itself. With Arthur he’d take them in greedily, impatient to get their length inside him. 

She moves quickly anyway, following Arthur’s script: “Two at once, the way you like it.” Her fingers twist into Merlin’s arse while Arthur asks “Are you ready, Merlin?”

“Yes!”

“Wait a second,” says Gwen, pulling her fingers out, “I don’t know if I am.”

“ _Please!_ ” Merlin whines.

“Okay! Hold on a sec, this dick-wielding business isn’t as easy as the girls in the pornos make it look.”

Then Merlin has to laugh and twist around to watch her. Gwen’s kneeling on the bed, naked and lovely, her breasts full, the dildo jutting out purple and thick. She frowns as she fiddles with one of the straps at her hip.

“How do you like that?” asks Arthur’s voice. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Gwen, and reaches back to pause the recording on her laptop. “Sorry, should’ve practised this more before he left.”

Merlin shakes his head. “You’re brilliant,” he says, stretching out on his back now, wondering why he ever thought to hide his face when he could be taking in a sight like this. “But are you almost ready to fuck me?” 

He pulls his legs up over her shoulders and Gwen grins, spreads some lube on the dick, lines up and carefully, eagerly, pushes in.

This is new for her, Merlin thinks, groaning and yielding and watching, watching. She only half believed him when he whispered that _they_ were lovers first, before either of them ever looked at the prince that way. She doesn’t remember the flower she gave him to put in his hair, the times they chased each other through the corridors of the castle, the way he tumbled her into bed or the way she shrieked with laughter with his head between her legs.

This Gwen has only known Merlin since last year, when her Arthur found him. She’ll never know, thank God, the way he sat beside lonely campfires with his eyes shut, pretending he was about to feel Arthur’s hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t remember the awful silence of Camelot in the years after, when they searched so desperately for comfort in each other’s arms.

So in a way this is new for Merlin too. He’s never been with just this Gwen before, beautiful Gwen who’s jerking his cock with a firm grip as she thrusts into him again and again. Just Gwen, but with the certainty that Arthur is theirs and will be with them again – most likely giving orders that Merlin will make Merlin shiver and Gwen roll her eyes – as soon his latest tour wraps up. 

“I love you,” she says, with wonder in her quiet voice.

“Yeah,” is all he can get out while she’s fucking him full and steady like this.

“Both of you, so much.”

He spurts in her hand and can barely nod. His head falls back on the bed and his belly’s a mess with cum. What a great and glorious time this is to be alive.

* * *

**46**

Gwaine and Percival were hanging out in his room playing FIFA after school when Gwaine brought it up.

“Have you ever sat on your hand until it fell asleep and then jerked off with it?”

Percival's player took a horrible shot. 

“Fuck!” Percival shouted. He paused the game. “No! Why would anyone even think of that? Have you?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine said with a shrug. “Feels like someone else is pulling you off.” 

“You know what that feels like too?”

Gwaine had fooled around with Elena a few times, so technically it counted when he said 'yes'. 

“Oh,” Percival replied, looking down at the controller in his hand. 

Percival sounded disappointed, which gave Gwaine the courage to ask, “Do you want to know what it feels like?” He looked up at Percival with the most flirtatious look he could muster.

“Er, are you offering?” Percival shifted. Gwaine could see the tent starting to grow in his shorts. 

“You know I've been dying to get my hands on your cock. Why do you think I flirt with you all the time?” Gwaine ignored the blood rushing to his cheeks with his confession. Percival was one of his best friends. Unless Gwaine's suspicions were right, this could totally ruin that. 

Percival tensed. “I'm not some big gay experiment. Just because I came out to you doesn't mean you can take advantage of me.”

“That's not fair,” Gwaine insisted. “I've wanted to touch you since way before I knew you were gay. Like, since we started taking group showers after footie practice.”

“But Elena...” Percival started.

“Bisexuality is a thing, you know.”

“You're bi?” Percival started to relax.

“Did you not just hear me say I've wanted to get my hands on your prick forever. You've played an important role in my sexual awakening. I don't think straight blokes think about touching their best friend's junk all the time. Well, sometimes I think Arthur might have a thing for me...”

“Gwaine, shut up.”

“Gladly,” Gwaine said.

Percival tossed his controller aside as Gwaine scooted closer across the bed. Gwaine ran his hand under Percival's shirt before dipping below the waistband of his shorts. Percival was breathing hard as Gwaine's hands roamed down. 

“Will you take them off?” Gwaine asked.

Percival lifted his hips and pushed off his shorts along with his pants. 

“Your cock is perfect.”

“Shut up.”

“No, but it is,” Gwaine said. 

He gripped Percival's cock with confidence, although it was all bravado. Percival was bigger than Gwaine and the angle was a bit awkward. 

Percival's prick felt heavy in his hand, but it also felt right. Gwaine liked the way Percival whimpered a little when Gwaine ran his hand loosely up and back down. He liked musky scent, so much different from the way a girl smelled, but just as good. He thought about bending down and taking a lick, but a blow job wasn't what Gwaine wanted to do just yet.

He wanted Percival to come apart under his hands.

“What do you like?” Gwaine asked breathlessly.

“You can grip tighter.” 

Gwaine squeezed. Both boys let out a groan. Gwaine started to stroke up slowly. 

He traced along the thick vein that ran down Percival's length. Then he used his thumb to bring Percival's foreskin up over the head. Percival shivered.

“Like that?” Gwaine asked.

“Yeah, right there. Right where your thumb is.”

Percival didn't give any more instructions, but Gwaine figured with the way Percival was panting, he was doing all right. He sped his hand up and tightened his grip, twisting his wrist with each stroke. 

“I'm gonna,” Percival said right before his body stiffened. 

Gwaine felt Percival's cock throb and pulse right before come started to spurt out the top. Gwaine continued stroking him through his orgasm. 

“Fuck that was hot,” Gwaine said. He looked down at his hand covered in Percival's come. 

He'd always been tempted to taste his own but never had the nerve. But this was different. He brought his hand up and licked around his fingers.

Percival's guttural “fuck” made Gwaine look up. Percival was looking at him with awe. 

He pushed Gwaine down on the bed and tugged at Gwaine's jeans. 

“You don't have to--”

“I want to,” Percival said, before shutting Gwaine up with a kiss.

* * *

**47**

Blindfolded, I lay on my back as my favorite rogue teased me with his cock. 

Brushing it up and down my lightly furred opening, he made no attempt to actually penetrate me. I groaned loudly and to force him into me but he leaned away and I cried out in protest, my hands tugging at his shoulders, trying to coax him back. 

His voice was a husky growl in my ear. "What is it, what do you want? Tell me or you won't get it." 

"P-p-please!" 

I shuddered deeply, gasping for air and moaning with desperation. 

"Please what?"

"Oh, God! Please, please I need you.I need this... I...”

He brought his fingers back to play with my clit and I squealed and bucked against his hand, clinging to his shoulders for support.

"What, little girl? What is it that you need me to do?" 

My breathing was ragged, panting gasps punctuated by deep groans. "Please, please I need you inside me!" 

"What is it you need inside you so badly?" 

He was rubbing his cock all around my slippery hole now, still pulling away when I tried to lean into him. 

“Oh for God’s sake, Gwaine!” I shouted in frustration. “Just fuck me already! Give me your cock, you fucking tease!”

I groaned aloud in relieved pleasure when he finally thrust forward and his cock plunged deep inside my wildly aroused body. Without sight, the feeling was incredibly intense. I bit my lip and suppressed the whimper that rose in my throat.

"Don't do that,” he demanded. “ I want to hear what you're feeling."

I let the whimper free. 

Moving slowly, he withdrew his cock almost to the very tip before slowly sliding its full length back inside my grasping cunt. For the first few strokes, I simply lay under him, reveling in the sensations of his flesh in mine, the delicious stretching of my inner walls, the hot friction of skin rubbing skin, the exciting squelching sounds made by his rhythmic penetration. Finally instinct forced me to begin thrusting my hips in time with his, lunging up to meet him on every downward stroke. 

"Yeah, that’s it, move with me... yes... like that... oh God, so tight... so wet... so hot!"

I leaned up and sealed his mouth with mine, cutting off the stream of words. Even in this extremis he couldn’t seem to stop talking! Our mouths remained locked together as his rhythm quickened, his strokes turning to lunges, each thrust reaching deeper than the one before. I released his mouth as my whimpers became a keening wail that spiraled to a scream as my throbbing body snapped taut and began to convulse, wave after wave of unbearable pleasure washing over me.

As I bucked wildly and arched against him, he grabbed my hips in powerful hands and continued to pound into me with feral passion. I could hear him growl as his thrusts became erratic. I felt small rocks and twigs scraping against my back and buttocks as the force of his lunging powered me over the ground. I didn't care; I was just as wildly inflamed. 

I clawed at his back with my fingernails and took whatever flesh of his I could between my gnashing teeth, meaning to leave marks. I shuddered to another orgasm as I bit down on his neck and screamed into his skin. His cock continued to piston in and out of my greedy, grasping pussy and his grunts building in volume. I could feel the sweat pouring off him, running down his chest and arms. I licked at the salty fluid as I continued to savage him with my teeth. Shudders wracked me as I continued to moan in the aftershocks of ecstasy.

He howled as he slammed his hips forward one last time and began to shudder against me. I felt his heat fountaining inside as my pussy clenched around his jerking cock. He stayed like that for a long moment, his body wracked by small convulsions , his hoarse voice deepening into a soft growl once again as he fought to regain his breath. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my trembling body tightly to his. Taking me with him as he rolled over onto his back, he made to remove the blindfold but I stayed his hand.

“Leave it on a while,” I said, grinning as I pressed my cheek to his chest and listened to the pounding beat of his heart. “I love the way you look like this."

* * *

**48**

For as long as anyone can tell, people have been born with strings on their fingers. Invisible to all but the connected, these strings start off colourless but can cycle through many colours in one lifetime. The druids call them "destiny threads", for they only form between those fate has chosen for each other.

Merlin is born with five strings on his right hand. As a child, he liked to wiggle his fingers and watch each of them tremble and pull taught. When his mother makes the decision to send him to Camelot he goes willingly, eagerly anticipating finding at least one of his connected.

The first one he meets properly is Arthur. With the adrenalin of the moment, it isn't until Arthur has his hand behind his back that he feels his thumb pulsing. When they throw him to the dungeon floor, he finally gets a look at his hand and sees his thumb string glowing a faint blue.

In his first week he meets three more of his connected. Gwen's thread instantly turns a sunny yellow. Morgana's is a slightly darker shade but it's yellow all the same. Kilgharrah's is an odd waxy orange, the colour of his eyes and Merlin files that away for closer inspection later. Arthur's confuses him. It pulls on him when he and Arthur are apart in a way the other threads don't and Arthur refuses to acknowledge its existence.

Arthur either can't see the thread or pretends it doesn't exist. Sometimes Merlin is convinced he can feel it; the times when he angles his hand to pull Merlin along by the thread speak volumes, but they never talk about it. Not even after Arthur risks his life for the Mortaeus flower and Merlin wakes to find the thread has finally settled on a colour - faint but permanent red.

Over the years, the colours of Merlin's threads change. Mordred appears to claim the final string, starting blue and ending a poison green. Morgana's fades to a sickly green before landing on dark emerald. Gwen's stays a stalwart yellow, but the tension lessons as she grows into a queen and their relationship fades. The only change that takes Arthur's thread is the darkening of the red. Merlin would be embarrassed about it but Arthur never acknowledges it.

Until the last day. On the last day, when two of Merlin's threads have already faded to black and turned to dust, and Arthur is dying in his arms. He presses their right hands together in a way they haven't touched since that first fight, and Merlin feels the pulse once more. Arthur looks down slightly and in that moment Merlin knows with every fibre of his being that Arthur knows, that Arthur has always known. As he looks out over the water and says his final goodbyes, his thread is red as ever and trailing after the boat in its wake. 

It's not long after that day that Kilgharrah's string darkens and falls. He returns to Camelot and does his best to aid Gwen, and their thread glows gold once more. It's in her last days she tells him that her thread with Arthur was never red, and that it had fallen off at the moment of his death.

For a thousand years, Merlin walks the earth alone, the red string on his thumb the only reminder of his past life. Until one day, it moves. It's only a slight vibration but it's enough to have Merlin pushing through time and space to find what's on the other end. Arthur is barely out of the lake before Merlin crashes into him and knocks them both back into the water.

They have no need for words and let their lips and hands do the talking their voices cannot. They pull and tear at each other's clothes in an overwhelming need to get closer, to say all the things denied to them in the past. As Arthur leans over his back, he joins their right hands together. The pulse of rightness that shoots through him is amplified by Arthur pressing in behind him. It feels like sanity is restored after years of living in darkness and Merlin clutches at it desperately, willing the pain of memory to be erased.

When they collapse together, spent and covered in mud, Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin's middle, tangling their fingers together. The pulse from their thread isn't quite as strong anymore, but to Merlin it's the best thing he's ever felt.

* * *

**49**

He woke to a scent, overwhelming, like lying in a field of moonflowers in full bloom. It slipped inside his brain, shaking him with the sense of being surrounded-

"Good morning!" said the nurse, her voice whisper-rough, yet like a shout. She fluffed the flowers in the vase by his bed, and the rasp of stem on petal echoed in his ears.

"Wha-" he croaked, his own voice too loud, the lights too bright-

"You had an accident, Mr. Smith," she whisper-shouted. "We did an MRI while you were unconscious. The doctor will be in to talk about it with you in a moment. Do you have a headache?"

Was that what this screaming pain was?

"She'll want to run more blood tests, and probably another MRI now that you're awake...."

They did not, in the end, run another MRI. He couldn't go near the machine; he only made it into the hallway once they offered noise-canceling headphones and dark wrap-around glasses.

"Heightened sensory perception," Dr. Lake whispered, somewhat more effectively than the nurse had. "You may learn to dial it down yourself, but until then, you'll need to give yourself regular breaks from stimulation to avoid headaches."

They sent him home with the glasses, headphones, a smell-canceling plug (that smelled overwhelmingly of plastic and soap), and a recommendation that he find a new job.

Yeah, they weren't going to take him back at the construction site anymore, if he could even stand to be there.

So Elyan sent an email to his boss (on his new solid drive laptop on the dimmest screen setting), sat down on the crappy sofa in his apartment, and thought.

####

He avoided emailing Gwen because she would take time off from grad school to help, and then there would be loans due. He avoided most of his old friends too, telling everyone he was fine, almost fully recovered, and would be switching to a less dangerous career.

This left him with an unfortunate amount of time to sit around in his very much not soundproofed apartment.

He already knew the bloke next door was named Gwaine, but he would definitely have known after that night. And the next. And the whole weekend.

The woman's name was Eira and the other fellow was Percival, which he wouldn't have known without his new senses. At first, he tried to distract himself with very quiet music, but Gwaine was shameless.

"Right there, baby, harder, mmph-"

The creaking bed, the harsh breathing, painted a very clear picture of Gwaine on all fours while Eira rode him with a strap-on, the straps creaking in counterpoint to the bed. Percival sat back against the headboard with his hands in Gwaine's hair, every so often shutting Gwaine up by shoving his mouth down on Percival's cock.

Elyan had been good. He hadn't touched himself in five days, but this was too much. His hand stole down and rubbed his swelling cock through his trousers.

At least touch was one thing the accident had left alone, so he didn't go off at the first brush of fingers. But he did jerk and swear, clawing at his belt.

The scrape of his zipper so loud that for a moment he thought they had to hear him, but then he remembered that he was the only one with enhanced senses. They were safely cocooned in their own sounds. He felt a flash of envy.

Then his hands were down his pants, one forming an o to stroke him hard, the other fondling his sack.

Gwaine was whining now. Eira called him her good boy, while Percival leaned forward to give him two sharp smacks on the inside of his thighs before pulling his head back down. Elyan hissed and squeezed tighter, wishing he had someone else's touch to ground him-

He came hard when Gwaine did, little aftershocks of pleasure and envy shivering as Percival started eating Eira out with Gwaine's moaned encouragement.

####

The next morning he came home from a practice walk, wearing his full gear and determined not to be embarrassed about it. As he turned the key in the lock, the door next to his opened and Gwaine leaned out, tossing his ridiculous hair.

_Percival's hands in his hair oh god-_

Gwaine grinned, interrupting Elyan's panic.

"I notice we've been neighbors for months, and I never invited you over for a drink," Gwaine drawled. "Fancy one sometime?"

"Uh, sure. When?"

Gwaine cocked his head. "How about now?"

* * *

**50**

Arthur could hear the strains of reggae and R&B inspired dance music even as the lift opened on his floor. _Someday the neighbours are going to call the police, he thought._ But he wasn’t going to say anything to Merlin, oh no. No. On the days when Merlin played this Pandora station loudly Arthur knew what was coming. 

And he wanted it so much. When Merlin took over from him, topped him, made him feel so good, god, fuck yeah, Arthur wanted it. 

Because Merlin was always turned on when he’d been dancing around the flat to the Shaggy station on Pandora for hours, and Arthur always got turned on watching Merlin shimmy and move. And them Merlin would take him.

He closed the door to his flat behind him, but softly. Inside the music was almost deafening, and Arthur dropped his bag and toed off his oxfords. He shed his jacket, slid off his tie, and was pulling his shirttails out of his trousers as Merlin saw him. 

A dark light lit Merlin’s eyes, and he shimmied his body around to the Bob Marley song currently blasting through the lounge. The snake tattoo that curled around Merlin’s side seemed alive, and made Arthur’s breath catch in his throat.

Merlin made his way slowly toward Arthur, who was dragging his shirt off his shoulders. By the time Merlin was close enough to touch, Arthur was down to just his tan trousers, and Merlin, not missing a beat, reached out to pull at Arthur’s belt. 

Soon Arthur was dancing with Merlin, stealing kisses against Merlin’s neck, sliding a hand along the tattoo, shifting his hips and his hardening cock against Merlin’s pert arse.

Not speaking except to sing along, Merlin turned in his arms and pulled at his belt. When Merlin had his cock free, he dropped to his knees and, with one hand to his own crotch, took Arthur’s length down to the base. 

Arthur groaned then, carding his hands through Merlin’s dark hair and clutching at his ears, shouting his encouragement and fucking Merlin’s mouth to the rhythm of the Shaggy song playing through the flat.

Merlin teased his balls and arse, making Arthur’s knees weak. Soon Merlin had Arthur on his back on the carpet, legs in the air, arse open to Merlin’s tongue and fingers. And then Merlin’s cock was breaching his hole and Merlin was singing Jay Z’s “Big Pimpin’” into his ear as he fucked him, deep, so deep, making Arthur see stars, hitting his prostate until he was cumming, cumming all over Merlin’s naked chest and his own beside.

Merlin was ruthless, even as Arthur cried out it was too much, too much, too sensitive, begging Merlin to have mercy. He fucked him, angling Arthur’s leg for better purchase, sawing into him until Arthur hardened up again, nailing his prostate until another orgasm overtook him, leaving him boneless with pleasure and spent passion.

Still Merlin fucked him, taking his pleasure in time with Montell Jordan’s “Get it on tonight” ( _why the hell was that on this station_ , thought the part of Arthur’s brain that was still aware of his surroundings thought), until Merlin too was spasming, pumping his load into Arthur’s arse, collapsing atop the blond and kissing him, sliding a tongue deep in Arthur’s mouth and murmuring, “Needed you so much, so much, I’ve been hard for hours, fuck, I hate your job.”

* * *

**51**

The rain had passed, and the weather had grown warm; the soil in the garden was damp and hot betwixt Freya’s fingers as she planted her seedlings, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face.

 _Clump – clump – clump_ she heard. She knew the sound for horses’ hooves before she heard the rattle of a bridle. She turned her face upwards and saw the misty shadow of a man upon horseback.

“Which way to the road, miss?” Not a man – a boy. His voice was too high for a man.

The road was not far east, and it had often born men on horses lately. Freya’s Eyes had seen them. There was to be a battle to the north. “East.” She pointed.

The boy on the horse didn’t ride away. “Are you alone?” he said. “You ought not be alone. They say there’s a witch in these woods.”

Freya gathered up her basket and straightened. “I don’t fear witches. It’ll be dark soon, and it’s a long ride to the road. You’d be best to stay here a while. I’m sure your battle will wait.”

The boy hesitated; then, to her relief, he dismounted.

*

Freya’s Eyes came back to her before dark, while the boy was stirring the pot for her. Her black cat streaked through the door and onto her lap, and at last she could see the boy. He was younger even than she’d thought; too young to be riding off to war. “How old are you, boy? How many summers?”

“I am eighteen.” The boy ladled stew into two bowls. It was a lie if Freya had ever heard one.

*

But that was not the lie; no, she saw through the lie the next morning. She was woken by the boy moving about her cottage, and she set her Eyes watching him. While she sat crouched indoors by the hearth, Freya’s eyes watched the boy strip off his leather armour and chainmail, strip off his clothes, and wash himself – wash herself at the pump outside.

A girl, then – a girl of eighteen, a woman, with blonde hair and a husky voice. Freya said nothing. She fed the girl again and sent her on her way.

“Is it true what they say?” said the girl as she mounted her horse. “Is there a witch in these woods?”

“There’s a witch in all woods.” Freya stood with her Eyes clutched to her chest, watching, watching the girl ride away; once the girl was out of sight, she dropped the cat and let it race into the woods to chase birds.

*

The girl came back bleeding. Rain was falling, and Freya was without her Eyes. It was good that her ears were keen, or else she might not have heard the sound of the horse’s hooves and the girl might have laid upon the ground all night.

“I know who you are,” said the girl as she lay inside, bandaged and feverish. “I solved your riddle. You’re the witch.”

“Hush, now,” said Freya. “You sleep now.”

*

“My name is Morgause,” her voice was a low hum, “and you are a witch.” She had bled through her bandages twice now, but Freya would heal her. She would.

“I am a witch,” she echoed. She sat straddling Morgause’s hips, a hand pressed to the place where she was bleeding. When she took it away her palm was hot and bloodied. She stripped off her shift and pressed her hand to her own abdomen, marking herself.

“You mean to kill me,” her voice came, sluggish, at the sight of the knife in Freya’s hands. But she did not struggle. She lay still while Freya cut open her palm and smeared her own blood on Morgause’s hip.

“We will be joined,” she said; and she began the incantation.

*

Freya did not need her Eyes. She saw Morgause’s body through her fingertips. She ran her hands down the woman’s flanks to her thighs, firm and muscled from riding a horse.

“You are a witch,” said Morgause, but now there was no fear in her voice, only wonder. 

“Yes.” Freya parted her thighs and ducked her head between them, lapping like a cat drinking milk at the hot, golden place she found there. 

“Yes,” Morgause agreed. “Yes. _Yes_.” Beneath Freya’s fingers her skin grew hot; beneath her tongue and her lips, Morgause grew wet.

Later, while Freya mouthed at her breasts, Morgause said, “will you teach me?”

* * *

**52**

Inspired by David Cronenberg's "Crash"

 

For a moment there's total silence, deep and disorienting after the screech of metal when their vehicle collided with the steel barrier, and the thump of impact with the ground. Then there’s the hiss in Arthur's ears, loud and uncomfortable, until it turns into the hammering of his pulse and the frantic in-and-out of his breathing. It's like emerging from ice-cold water: lungs paralyzed at first and then working double-time, painfully so.

Before Arthur even forms the thought "I'm alive" his brain screams, "Merlin!" 

He tries to see through the smoky haze of dusk, crawling slowly to something resembling a body. Merlin’s limbs are spread unnaturally, but not enough to feel like a huge "no."

"Merlin!" Arthur inches closer, clutching his fingers around Merlin's wrist, feeling for the pulse and—thank God.

Arthur swallows but there's nothing to swallow; there’s only a dry lump in his throat and not enough saliva, as if he's dug his way through the dirt with his teeth. It’s painful to breathe but he’s breathing, each inhalation becoming easier as he sees movement in the pale body at his fingertips.

"Merlin."

Merlin grunts and pulls himself up with one hand, then changes his mind halfway and just rolls on his back, arms splayed wide. He reminds Arthur of their car lying now on the edge of the empty road—belly up, exposed and vulnerable, shape all twisted but not completely broken.

Arthur reaches out, touching Merlin's cheek, letting his hand slip lower to Merlin's neck to feel his heartbeat, to count out the rhythm and assess the damage. Fast, but steady. Good.

He wonders when it happened. At what precise moment did life cease to be enough? When did they come to need _this_ —the speed, the adrenaline, the crash and inevitable pain—to feel _something_ , to feel alive, to wake up their dulled senses from the background of grey porridge, insipid and indifferent?

There's blood on Merlin's mouth where his upper lip has split, and Arthur tries to wipe it with his thumb, smearing it more than cleaning it before he leans down, tracing the gash with his tongue. He pushes his leg in between Merlin's thighs and grinds down, where he knows Merlin will be hard already.

Merlin whimpers, and it might be from pain because his leg isn't quite right, won't ever be, just like Arthur's jaw and arm—too many stitches in the scarred flesh and titanium nails in the broken bones—but Merlin's already pulling Arthur closer, thrusting up, up, up.

The mud underneath their bodies is slippery, making Arthur's hands slide as he gets tangled in the mess of clothes, fingers still a bit too stiff to work properly as he pulls their jeans down, wishing he could just rip the fabric.

Letting his head fall back, exposing his throat, Merlin sighs, surrendering to Arthur. Their cocks are joined together in Arthur's fist, muddy and too tight, but it feels too good for them to care. It's one, two strokes, and again, with Arthur's hips pushing and Merlin thrusting back. But as he breathes into Merlin's mouth, tasting the blood, it's perfect. Nothing else matters. Just this moment, when he feels alive and he has Merlin underneath his body, writhing until he's coming, silent and tense, as he always does.

Only then, with Arthur's hands all wet and slippery with Merlin's seed, does Arthur come too, squeezing his eyes against the wave of pleasure that hits him. He collapses, trying to put at least some of his weight to the side of Merlin instead of on top of him; he’s still unsure if they're both in one piece: no broken limbs, no internal bleeding. There’s the pain in his ribs, and Merlin’s hitching breath, but they’re alive. This time.

He feels Merlin's slender frame shaking in his arms, and wet, warm liquid on his neck where Merlin's face is buried. Merlin sobs just like he comes, quiet and tense. Arthur isn’t sure if it’s relief they’ve made it again, or despair that they’ll chase this feeling once more until there are no more chances. Probably the latter. It makes Arthur's heart feel bruised.

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispers into Merlin's ear, kissing the damp skin there. 

Sirens are blaring in the distance, getting closer. They’ll have to get out of here, but for a moment Arthur can relish this delicate peace. He strokes Merlin's hair and rocks him gently. "Maybe next time, baby. Maybe next time."

* * *

**53**

Merlin’s wrists ache from where they rub against the cuffs above his head. He knows Arthur has to be somewhere close by, because he’d never leave him strung up like this. It’s difficult knowing for certain, though, because Merlin is blindfolded and can’t see shit. He’s also agreed to letting Arthur put earplugs in his ears, which makes it difficult to hear. He heard muffled murmurs when Arthur spoke earlier, but he couldn’t quite make out the words.

Now, everything is quiet and dark. He shivers in the cold, damp air of the basement. Suddenly, Merlin thinks he can feel a breath against his neck, and he jerks forward slightly. His heart starts beating faster and the thoughts race through his mind. Was that Arthur? Or was it just a draft and Merlin’s overactive imagination?

He has barely finished that last thought when there’s a caress – definitely a human hand – on his stomach. Merlin draws in a shuddery breath and holds it for a few seconds before exhaling slowly, trying to calm himself.

“Arthur,” he breathes, but he can only hear the name as it echoes in his head, and he’s not quite sure if he can _hear_ the replying chuckle, or if it’s his mind, trying to comfort him.

Then there’s another hand, stroking his half-hard cock into full hardness. Merlin tries to push his hips forward into the tight fist, but struggles for purchase and fails. There is a mumbled word, and suddenly there are multiple hands on him: on Merlin’s back, caressing his neck, his thighs, his chest. 

He tenses and tries to twist away, but then he can feel Arthur’s – it must be his – lips brushing gently against his own. There are small gusts of air against his mouth, words of reassurance that Merlin can’t hear but understands anyway. Eventually, he relaxes.

The other hands are slowly, carefully, working their way over his thin body. He’s not shivering anymore, and he’s hard, and now he doesn’t want anything but _more_. Arthur gives him a long, deep kiss before drawing away. Maybe, just maybe, Merlin lets out a low whine that turns into a moan when someone roughly grabs his hips, making him tremble with anticipation and want.

There’s an eager tongue on his nipple, a hot mouth licking its way up his hard cock, someone grabbing his hair and pulling his head back to reach the long, pale neck... nipping and sucking at it, _marking_ him. Lust pulsing hotly through his veins, Merlin forgets about his aching wrists and tries to twist his body towards the one that gives him the most pleasure right _then_. Someone runs a thick, wet finger against his tight hole, and Merlin tries to push back because he wants–

He wants _that_. Oh, god...

Everything turns into a haze, then, and Merlin loses track of what’s reality and what his mind’s adding to it. There are too many touches, too many thick, amazing fingers in his arse. When they hit the right spot, they force these pathetic sounds out of him, but he can’t stop. It’s like he’s lost all his control, his pleasure is forcing it away because _this_ is how he’s meant to live, _this_ is how he’s meant to be used...

When the first spatter of come hits his lower back he groans and twists, allowing the second, third and fourth load to hit him all over. His stomach and back is wet with it and he can feel it slide messily in between his arse cheeks. Big hands are rubbing it into his skin, playing with it, feeding it to him, and it’s so good, so good... 

The mumble of a dark voice makes the hands withdraw, leaving Merlin filthy and hard. His ragged breaths are like screams inside his head, and when someone takes out the ear plugs, he fights against his bonds for a second before he can feel the comforting warmth of Arthur holding him.

The voice is soft in his ear. “I need you to come for me, love. Can you do that?”

_Yes, yes._

Those familiar, beautiful fingers wrapped around his hard cock make it quick but no less amazing. Soon, Merlin is spent and simply becomes a boneless heap in Arthur’s arms. He’s carefully lowered to the ground as the blindfold is removed.

“You okay?”

Merlin keeps his eyes closed and tucks his nose under Arthur’s cheek, revelling in the closeness. He nods slowly and murmurs, “’M perfect.”

“You really are.”

* * *

**54**

A lanky black-haired guy elbowed Arthur as he made his way behind. “You sure you’re meant to be here?” he said to Arthur. 

“Ouch, watch it you, that hurt! What’s it to you, anyway?” Arthur said. Another territorial stage hand being rude to him at a band gig, so what was new. 

“It matters when it’s my band, your arsehole,” the guy said. 

“You? You’re…” Arthur sighed. Great, not a stage hand, but an opinionated musician instead. Why did they always have to be so hot and fit when they were so rude? 

“Yeah, Merlin, that’s me.” 

“I’m your, er, the sign-language interpreter for this concert,” Arthur signed as he spoke, by way of illustration. 

“Oh,” Merlin crunched his hair, making it even more rumpled. _God, he was hot_. And he didn’t seem as rude anymore. 

“So you read lips too?” Merlin said, and Arthur realised he’d been caught staring. At Merlin’s very full lips . _Shit._

“Oh, yeah. Yes, that too.” Arthur was not proud of his limited eloquence right now, but the close proximity of this Merlin guy was making him hot and bothered, and the thudding bass sounds were not helping. The warm-up act had begun. 

“Er, I’m not signing,” Merlin said, looking pointedly at Arthur. 

Arthur tore his gaze away from Merlin’s long slender fingers. Caught again! “Just a habit, you know, looking at fingers,” he said weakly. 

“Is that right? Looking at fingers and lips, huh?” Merlin rubbed his fingers over his lips in apparently thoughtfulness, and Arthur was mesmerized all over again. 

“You liking what you see?” Merlin said, breaking Arthur’s reverie. He smirked and sucked in his cheeks till his face was hollowed. 

Arthur flushed. “Stop taking the piss!” he said, turning away.

A strong hand gripped him. “Hey, I was just messing with you,” Merlin said, voice soft next to Arthur’s ear. “Thought you might want to… mess around with me too?” 

Then Merlin licked Arthur’s ear, and the only thought Arthur had was “Ah, what the hell” before he leaned back into Merlin’s hold and pressed his body full along Merlin’s. 

There was always something unknown and torrid and exciting about skulking backstage. Uther’s denouncing of rock music as evil just made it even more attractive to Arthur. Now, wrapped in the arms of a smoking hot musician in the wings of the stage, Arthur was panting and gasping fit to burst. 

“Look at you,” Merlin said, spinning Arthur around and pulling him even closer. “All hot and bothered, and we haven’t even started.” 

Arthur would get _him_ hot and bothered; that would show him. He locked lips with Merlin and it became a heated make-out session, Arthur and Merlin grappling for control as one of them, then the other, got the upper hand. 

Arthur eventually ended up pressed against a flimsy fabric wall. His hand was on some technical equipment for support as Merlin ground their hips together. They were so near the stage, the ground was shaking below them, and the screams of the crowd seemed just behind the wall. 

“Do it,” Arthur grunted, and pulled his dick out so Merlin would take them both in hand and jerk them off. 

Arthur’s head fell back in bliss and he let himself float in the pleasure of the beats and the rhythm of the tugs and pulls, the pressing of sinewy thighs against him (when had their trousers come off?)

Arthur didn’t know if it was Merlin’s yelps or his clever fingers or the deep vibrations enveloping them that tipped him over the edge, but he finally lost his hold on the black boxy thing as he came in a white wash of pleasure. 

“Fuck” Arthur said, still breathing hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Merlin kissed him hard. “That could be arranged,” he said. “But not right now, my set is starting. Look for me later.” 

Er, yeah, right; Arthur still had a job to do, that was what he came for. 

Usually Arthur was a kick-ass sign language interpreter for concerts, but this one night, he was absolutely awful. He kept staring at Merlin and having to adjust his pants to hide his hard-on and totally losing his train of thought. 

He couldn't wait till later. 

FIN

* * *


	8. Group D (clean)

**55**

[](http://imgur.com/SxXyqMW)

* * *

**56**

[](http://imgur.com/qKWNTRQ)

* * *

**57**

[](http://imgur.com/1SHa120)

* * *

**58**

[](http://imgur.com/GqRCxA1)

* * *

**59**

[](http://imgur.com/jAlknJ8)

* * *

**60**

[](http://imgur.com/2qh5gNz)

* * *

**61**

[](http://imgur.com/KcyOUY5)

* * *

**62**

[](http://imgur.com/WP6B6oH)

* * *

**63**

[](http://imgur.com/1Rc1al0)

* * *


End file.
